


Alphabet Soup

by Dessert_Maniac



Series: Counting Stars [3]
Category: Senki Zesshou Symphogear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Family, F/F, Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:03:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 34,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7321666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dessert_Maniac/pseuds/Dessert_Maniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oftentimes she'd shuffle into the kitchen in the morning to find Papa sighing over yet another blackened meal. He would puzzle over the large recipe book with the most lost expression ever. Cooking, Papa liked to say, was nothing like the sciences.</p>
<p>Sometimes, however, Papa would let her try her hand at cooking. He would hover over her shoulder, anxious, as she made the most basic of soups. He and Elfnein would gasp in awe when her alphabet soup not only turned out <i>edible</i> but also <i>delicious</i>. </p>
<p>Oftentimes she lies awake at night to replay those moments over and over again in her head.</p>
<p>[Hibiki and Miku find Carol.] [3 povs] [Knowledge of previous stories not necessary.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3A | Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's angry, okay?

### A

Anger.

That’s—that’s her default response to anything that goes wrong. Papa—lots of people tell her it’s a bad thing, but it’s _not_. They just don’t understand.

Right now, sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair and squinting under the bright LED lights, she’s angry. That’s right. She’s angry. She’s uncomfortable and tired and _angry_.

Elfnein comes back from the restroom, her face still a blotchy red and her little hand clutching the police officer’s hand like it’s a life line. _Elfnein_ is upset, a sad mess, but Carol?

Carol is angry.

“You okay there, kiddo?” the police officer asks her, coaxing Elfnein into the seat beside her.

She glares at the ground, gritting out, “Yeah.” Of course she’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s angry, and that’s good. That means she’s not a blubbery mess like Elfnein is. It means no one will take advantage of her, because she’s on hyper-alert and more than willing to defend herself.

Unfortunately, Elfnein is basically dead weight, but it doesn’t matter.

Carol can be angry enough for both of them.

“I mean, heck,” the officer sighs, shaking his head, “what a mess it is, don’tcha think? Your old man had a will, but he _also_ had a criminal record, and it came back to bite him in the a—”

“Shut up!”

The officer blinks, taken aback, but Elfnein whimpers, “Papa….”

“There, there, kiddo.” The officer tries to reassure Elfnein with a pathetic head pat and a handkerchief, which, granted, Elfnein definitely needs right about now. “It’s going to be okay, just you wait and see,” he adds, smiling at Carol.

Just her luck to be stuck with the _stupidest_ police officer!

As if a measly _smile_ and a pat on the head and a handkerchief will fix _anything_.

Papa is _dead_. Nothing can possibly bring him back and nothing will ever be _okay_ without him.

“Gunther.” A head pokes out of the door across from them; it’s the detective that’s _supposedly_ figuring out the story of what happened to Papa. He doesn’t even look at her and Elfnein, or even the police officer, as he says, “Come here for a moment.” His eyes are stuck on some portfolio, like _it_ is going to give him any answers.

Her teeth grind in her mouth.

She’d already tried telling the big idiot what had happened, but he—they _all_ brushed her off, as if Papa’s _murder_ is _nothing important_.

“Yes, sir,” the officer replies. He gives them a sympathetic look and follows the detective into the office.

“Tch. No-good adults.”

Elfnein pulls her face out of the handkerchief long enough to softly reprimand her, “That’s n-not nice, Carol.”

Carol, however, has fixated on the barely-open door of the office. Maybe, if she scoots a little closer, she’ll be able to hear what they’re saying.

Absentmindedly, she mutters, “Quiet.”

Voices, murmurs, indistinct words; she eases the chair just a little closer.

“—and they have no living relatives, unless we look for far-off relatives. Aside from that, only one other person is mentioned on his will: a former colleague, Dr. Ryouko Sakurai. We have word from the Japanese embassy that Sakurai is also missing and wanted for classified reasons—”

“Carol? It’s not nice to eavesdrop,” Elfnein says, tugging on her sleeve and disrupting her concentration.

“Sh.” She waves a hand, vaguely in Elfnein’s direction.

The officer hums—in agreement, possibly, to something she missed—and, after a pause, says, “The preliminary report, sir, suggests foul play. Should we…?”

“Yes, yes,” the detective snaps, “but first we have a couple of orphans we have to accommodate someplace safe. We wouldn’t want Malus Dienheim’s enemies gunning after the kids.

“All they have left is the clothes on their backs. The sooner we find them a home, the better.”

Her fists clench.

“Sir… the cleanup team picked up a few things… may we—may the girls take the artefacts? I think it’d be good for their morale. It’s… it’s all they have left of their father, sir.”

The detective sighs.

Elfnein’s breath hitches; great, now they’ve gone and upset Elfnein all over again.

“Alright, yes, I’ll write a note so you can get the things out of the evidence locker.”

“Thank you, sir.”

 _No_ , she snarls to herself. Her teeth clench.

 _Thanks for_ nothing _. I’m not going to say thank-you when you’ve done_ nothing _for my papa!_

Her thoughts are so loud that she doesn’t notice the officer and detective step out of the office until the officer says, “Hey, kiddo, don’t cry. C’mon, smile for me?”

“Yeah, Elfnein,” she snaps at Elfnein, who only whimpers further in response. “Stop being such a _crybaby_ all the time.”

Anger, white-hot in her stomach and throat and hands, is what’s making her lash out at Elfnein. She doesn’t _really_ mean it, but Elfnein makes it so _easy_ , the way she curls into herself.

“Such an angry child. That temper is bound to get you into trouble sooner or later. I would be careful if I were you,” the detective remarks. He looks at her for the first time since they arrived at this police station.

For a moment, she forgets to breathe.

He’s frowning at her.

Admonishing her with his cold blue eyes.

Maybe, if she hadn’t been so reckless, if she _had_ been able to control her anger, Papa would still be alive.

“Shut up,” she mutters, sullen now.

“Ah, well, I’ll bet you girls are tired now,” the officer cuts in with a faint smile.

Looking down at the omnipresent portfolio in his hands, the detective tells them, “The Kaname Institute for Children has space for the two of you. Officer Gunther will take you there to stay until further notice.” He snaps the portfolio closed and leaves with a swish of his duster and without a goodbye.

Good _riddance_.

“There, there,” Officer Gunther whispers. He strokes Elfnein’s hair, a sad look on his face.

Carol has to wrench her eyes away, because—big hands, sad blue eyes, messy blonde hair—he reminds her too much of Papa.

And that’s what she hates most about him: he _isn’t_ Papa.

It’s not going to be okay. Whoever says it will be is a _liar_.

A _damned_ liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am back.
> 
> To all my continuing readers: thank you, from the very middle of my heart, for your continued support.
> 
> To my new readers: hi! Thank you for giving me a chance ^^
> 
> Now, I must point out a few things.
> 
> 1\. The tone of this particular story is... heavier than the previous two, partly because Carol is such a violent character and partly because there are some serious issues involved.
> 
> 2\. My funny bone is broken and I have all the tact of a bull in a china shop when it comes to sensitive topics. I hope to improve in this particular aspect over the course of the story. Please do tell me if something is off.
> 
> 3\. This is 26 chapters long; far shorter than the previous two stories, but I will try to make the length of the chapters make up for it.
> 
> ...I think that's it. I really, really appreciate reviews (even if I take forever to reply to them), so do feel free to leave a comment!


	2. 3B | Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more expositionary stuff.

### B

Banal.

It all seems so _banal_ , somehow.

Maybe it’s the nature of this place to suck the life out of everything.

Or maybe it’s just her.

She can’t tell.

But she knows for certain that it _irritates_ her. This tiny room, with its bunkbeds shoved in a corner and its wooden desks taking up most of the space and its single square window overlooking an empty alley—it’s all so _ordinary_.

Barely three full days into their stay at this orphanage, everything that happened before seems like a distant dream.

Papa—he feels so far, far away.

“Maybe it’s the uniform,” she mutters, scowling down at the thing laid out on her bed.

Grey and white, the institute’s crest stitched in darker grey on the left breast, too much starch in the collar, the uniform makes her feel like the porridge Papa sometimes made: dull, lifeless, _boring_.

She glances out the window. Neither the grey asphalt of the weed-filled alleyway nor the red-brick façade of the building across them has changed in the last five seconds.

“No,” she decides. “It’s the place.”

It’s definitely this awful place that has her feeling… feeling… blank. The stupid uniform weighs her down a lot and the very _atmosphere_ of the institution makes her head hurt. It’s this place that makes her feel—something that’s not angry.

Elfnein’s head pokes out of her blankets as she peers down from the top bunk; she blinks and mumbles, “What’s the place?”

Carol shakes her head, brushing her nonsense thoughts away. “C’mon,” she says, “it’s almost time for breakfast.”

“Mhm,” Elfnein sleepily replies. She rubs her eyes before abruptly freezing.

Here comes the blubbering.

Elfnein mumbles, “Papa’s gone. He’s gone. He’s not—not coming back.” Elfnein’s voice cracks on the last word.

“No, he’s not,” Carol reiterates for the third morning in a row. It’s getting old.

Her fingernails dig into her palm.

“Let’s go,” she snaps, brusque and blinking away troublesome tears. She doesn’t _need_ tears, doesn’t _want_ them. She doesn’t need whatever bland existence the institution is trying to mold her into; she has her anger, damn it, and that’s _all_ she needs.

Soft sobs are the only response she gets from Elfnein.

It makes her want to cry, too. She plops down on her bed instead.

By the time Elfnein stops crying, they’re fifteen minutes late to breakfast, and it doesn’t matter. None of that matters now that Papa is gone.

Gone?

No.

 _Gone_ doesn’t even _begin_ to describe what had happened.

Papa is—

“There you are!” the bright, grating voice of the head girl startles Carol so badly that she jerks upright and nearly hits her nose on the upper bunk’s ladder. “Heh, sorry about that,” the head girl adds as she steps into the room. “Breakfast hour is almost over.”

Elfnein, Carol notices when she glances up, is hiding under her blankets. She’s probably crying silently and trying not to be heard.

Neither of them reply to the head girl’s implied question, but it doesn’t seem to bother the head girl. She simply stands in the doorway, eyes on the lump that is Elfnein, and fiddles with her sleeve cuff.

It’s this place, Carol reiterates.

It bleaches them.

“The headmaster wants you to stop by his office.”

Reduces them to—to shells, husks, puppets.

“His office is right next to the mess hall. I can take you, if you want.”

“Right,” she says. She stands up, absentmindedly smooths out the rumples left in the sheets, and repeats, “Let’s go.”

Elfnein, thankfully, clambers down from the top bunk without protest. She’s fully dressed—it might, however, be yesterday’s uniform she’s wearing, judging by the wrinkles.

“Alright!” The head girl perks up again, as if their cooperation means the world to her.

 _Tch_ , she sneers, but Elfnein latches onto her sleeve and whispers, “Be n-nice.”

At least the hallways are empty of bratty children; they’re all probably finishing breakfast, or in their classrooms by now.

Classrooms. Classes. That’s not such a bad thought… she’s never been to a proper school.

Knocking on the headmaster’s office door, the head girl announces, “Malus Dienheim twins here to see you, sir.”

“Enter.”

“I’ll wait out here for you,” the head girl tells them with an encouraging smile, not that it matters to Carol.

The headmaster beckons them closer, but both she and Elfnein are unwilling to approach further. The headmaster isn’t a very big man—in fact, he’s stooped with age—but she remembers that the headmaster of the village school was the one who held her in his arms as she tried to enter their burning cabin.

Yes, she knows that the actions of one do not imply a common trait in the whole population, that to prove one case is not sufficient to prove a hypothesis, but—headmasters aren’t trustworthy. Even Elfnein agrees with her, huddling behind her.

“Well,” the headmaster clears his throat, “Officer Gunther stopped by this morning with a box of your things. I am afraid he could not stay longer to pay you a visit, but he sends his….”

Blah-blah-blah.

She doesn’t care about the police officer. She wants the headmaster to hurry up and give them their stuff already; she wants to see what managed to escape that burning cabin.

After a great deal of blathering, the headmaster finally places a box on his desk and gives them permission to take it.

Carol is, of course, the one to take the box into her own hands.

Unfortunately, the headmaster continues to babble, “It is my firm hope that you will find in the Kaname Institute a home. Your peers are all intimately familiar with loss, and I am certain that, should you but ask, they will come to your aid. Our institute prides itself in providing structure in these trying times,” and a lot more nonsense.

“Thank you, sir,” she interrupts to shut him up; she’s itching to return to their room.

“Ah, of course, Miss Malus Dienheim,” the headmaster says, smiling. “You have been excused from your morning classes, though you are expected to attend the afternoon session. Now, Miss Hofmann will take you to the kitchens for breakfast. Dismissed.”

Glad to be done with that, she turns on her heel and leaves as quickly as possible.

The head girl is waiting for them outside, like she promised, but Elfnein stops her with a tug to her sleeve.

“C-can I…?”

“After we get our breakfast,” she answers and resumes walking.

Luckily, the head girl doesn’t say anything; she leaves them at the kitchens, saying that she has to get to her class.

“Good riddance,” she mutters.

“Carol,” Elfnein admonishes. She’s poking at her cereal, and at this rate it’s going to turn soggy.

Rolling her eyes, Carol settles the box in between them on the bench.

All of a sudden, her throat is tight.

This is all that’s left.

She pries the lid off with strangely numb fingers, and she stares at the contents with an equally numb gaze because—

Her cloak is in there, bundled up, and an unfamiliar stuffed penguin takes up most of the space.

All that’s left of Papa is his everyday glasses, cracks running through the lenses, and his watch.

“There’s a note.” She picks up the scrap of paper, reading, “‘For Elfnein, from Officer Gunther. I’m sorry I couldn’t get anything else.’” She frowns. “ _Sorry_ doesn’t fix anything.”

Elfnein’s not listening. Her eyes are watery again and her bottom lip is trembling.

Carol snatches the broken glasses and her cloak, telling Elfnein, “You can keep the watch. It’s too bulky for me.”

Papa’s prescription is different from hers, but she tucks his glasses into her shirt for safekeeping anyway.

She misses him. She misses—no, she doesn’t.

She’s angry.

That’s what she’s feeling. It’s this place’s fault for making her forget that she’s supposed to be angry.

But she _won’t_ forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to Madoka for naming this orphanage after her; I should've gone with something like "Lucky Smells ~~Lumbermill~~ Orphanage," haha.
> 
> Getting inside Carol's head is... weird....
> 
> Please review! I am slowly but surely clearing out my inbox.


	3. 3C | Hibiki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later, she'll laugh at how ninja-like she's become.

### C

Cramps.

“Shoot,” she mutters, trying to shake out her leg to regain feeling in it.

Pain ricochets up her cramped muscles, and she curses again.

That’s _not_ the type of feeling she wants!

Cramps are a spy’s worst enemy. Well, that, and boredom—she’s been on this ledge for _hours_.

“How much longer do I have to wait here?” she whines as quietly as she can into her earpiece.

“ _Until we manage to find Ver’s hiding spot. Hopefully this guy will lead us to him,_ ” Aoi explains all over again.

“Why couldn’t Ver have picked somewhere _closer_ to home, though?” she grouses—just a little bit bitter, she knows, but she can’t help it. She’s left Miku all alone at home. It nags at her, even though they made the decision together.

Being so far from Miku… leaving Miku even after she promised not to do that ever again…

“ _It’s part of the job, Hibiki. It is what it is._ ”

She wants to retort, wants to snap at Aoi, but that’s not fair of her. It’s not Aoi’s fault that they’re all the way in Germany to hunt down Ver. It’s not Aoi’s fault that Hibiki’s marriage is—is falling apart.

It’s not Aoi’s fault that Hibiki doesn’t know how to fix it.

“’Course it is,” she mutters, “and it’s a job I picked for myself.”

That’s right. She’s in this because she _wants_ to be.

 _Get your head in the game_ , she tells herself. Now’s not the time for emotional crises. Right now, she’s waiting on the ledge of a roof, waiting for her mark to make a move, waiting for the moment to strike.

She has to make this _count_.

“ _ETA for Chris is twenty minutes_ ,” Sakuya pipes up.

Confused, she questions, “Eh? But isn’t Chris on vacation with Kirika and Shirabe?”

“ _Yes, but since they’re in Paris at the moment, quite close, the commander asked Chris to come help out. This mission undoubtedly requires two of our finest_ ,” he explains.

Oh, she hadn’t thought of that.

But, it makes sense. The sun is setting behind her now, and the darkness of night is bound to make Ver feel safer—it’s pretty much his element, after all. And, this being an unfamiliar city, he definitely already has an advantage.

Just _one_ special agent isn’t enough, no matter how good she is.

Kirika’s voice comes to mind, sneering, _“Don’t get cocky! You think you’re all that, but I’ll show you! I’ll show you what’s like to be on the other side!”_

That was… years ago.

_I’m sorry, Kirika. I haven’t learnt my lesson._

But now is not the time for that, because the light in the house she’s been keeping an eye on has finally gone out. It’s a good thing the blood is flowing freely in her legs again; she has a feeling she’s in for a good old-fashioned chase.

“Mark is on the move.”

“ _Roger_.”

He slips out of the window, presumably of a bedroom, dropping into a crouch in the grass with only a faint _crunch_. If she hadn’t been watching so closely, she would’ve lost him in the shadows of the house and the buildings around them.

She waits until he slips into a nearby alleyway before dropping down from her perch to follow.

Her soles barely make a sound as she runs, keeping a good distance away from her mark, but even so he seems to be wary of anyone following him—she loses sight of him barely a minute into the game.

“ _Left on the next intersection_ ,” Aoi whispers.

Of course, he can’t evade her for long, not when she has Aoi and Sakuya acting as supplementary eyes and ears.

She catches up quickly enough. It’s amazing, how a matter of streets is all that separates the middle class from the poorer class.

The buildings here give off a more… _sinister_ feeling; it’s as though the shadows themselves are deeper, darker. If it were daylight, she’s sure the streets and buildings would be grimy and crumbling.

A fitting place for someone like Ver.

Does he know that she’s coming after him? Does he know that she’s been following his trail since they caught word of him in London two weeks ago? Does he know that Chris still has nightmares about him and Finè?

“ _Watch out. You’re in the red light district now_.”

She idly wonders, why is it called the “red light” district?

Then, her mark ducks into a bar with a neon-red sign flashing, _Club XX_ , and she thinks she sees where it comes from.

He skipped the long line outside, however, leaving her stuck on how to follow him without giving anything away.

“ _On it_ ,” Sakuya reassures her, so she plasters herself against the wall of the building across to wait for further instructions.

It’s the wait that irks her the most.

Countless hours spent _waiting_ , watching, covering their bases. She hates this part. All she wants to do is barge in there and bring him in with her two fists. Adrenaline courses through her blood; soon, all this waiting will come to a close.

“ _Go around the back. The second window from your left on the second story is clear._ ”

“Got it.”

Breaking and entering is, of course, illegal, but if it means cornering Ver after so long, then she’ll do it.

For her friends. For what could have been. This is the best she can do for them—this is the least she can do for them.

She doubles back to approach the building from the back, scales it, and eases in through the window; ironic, isn’t it, that she’s pretty much echoing her mark’s actions?

The floor beneath her vibrates with the bass music playing downstairs; this floor must be some type of meeting area. How secure it is, she doesn’t know.

“Where?” she mutters into her earpiece, glancing around warily, hopping on her toes to move at a second’s notice.

“ _Down the hall, last door on your right_ ,” Aoi says. “ _Keep an ear out for civilians_.”

As if she would ever forget.

“Count on me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heck if I know what's going on. I suck at action stuff and I especially suck at spy stuff; I'm eternally looking for the secret to good action scenes.
> 
> Anyway, this ended up a good deal sadder than the original version of the chapter, and you're in for more sadness tomorrow! How fun.
> 
> Please review ^^


	4. 3D | Miku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some sad stuff...
> 
> Warning: brief discussion of miscarriage.

### D

“Doctor Tachibana!”

She hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t look up from her patient’s folder; none of the medications she prescribed are working, and she does not want to risk a higher dosage or else—

“Doctor Tachibana! Please, a moment of your time, ma’am!”

Lifting her gaze, she regards the resident. He’s one of the new ones, she thinks, because she doesn’t remember his name.

Walters, maybe?

“I have the files you requested, doctor; they came in just a few minutes ago,” he says, waving a bundle of papers. “Should I drop them off at your office?”

Ah?

She doesn’t remember asking for supplementary files, but perhaps this has something to do with her difficult patient’s diagnosis. Particularly difficult, and growing more concerning by the minute.

“No, I will take them, thank you.”

He hands her the papers, bows, and scurries off to whatever other tasks he has to complete.

She skims the first few pages as she continues on her way to the cafeteria—idly, she half-wishes she were still a resident. Maybe then….

It looks like the paper is a photocopy of a chapter on pneumothorax. Pneumothorax, an uncoupling of the lung from the chest wall due to abnormal air or gas collection in the pleural space. In some extreme cases, tension pneumothorax arises and puts the patient’s life in danger.

Brow furrowing, she comes to a stop in the hallway, thinking: pneumothorax. Lung cavity. Chest pains. Breathlessness—

Her patient!

She turns on her heel, hurrying to the floor secretary.

Yes, her patient, who was caught in the blast radius of a detonation. Of _course_ it makes sense that he would suffer from this, of _course_!

“Ah, Doctor Tachibana.”

“Not now,” she snaps and quickens her pace; she is nearly there and can ill afford distractions.

 Moments later, she is setting her patient’s folder on the secretary’s counter. “Please—” does her voice betray her inner trembling?—“schedule a CT scan and an appointment with the surgeon on the closest date available.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” the secretary replies.

If only she were allowed, then she would perform the surgery on her patient herself. Her hands itch to take up the scalpel once again….

“The record has been updated, ma’am,” the secretary tells her, pushing the folder back to her.

“Thank you.”

She turns back the way she came.

Where was she going in the first place?

“Back to the land of the living, I see,” a voice cuts in.

Her head snaps up, for it cannot be—but it is.

It’s _Kiriko_ , standing casually in the middle of the hallway as if the board of directors hadn’t banned him from the premises just last month.

“What are you _doing_ here,” she hisses; she bristles even further when Kiriko has the audacity to smirk and shrug.

“Do not fret. I am here strictly as a poison expert—saving lives, as you see.” He raises his empty hands to show his customary case is absent. “And I am on my best behavior, at the personal request of your _darling_ father.”

At that, she side steps him, intent on going to the cafeteria for a moment of peace; it’s just her blasted luck that he would add insult to injury.

But he follows her, as relentless as the angry pulsing in her temple. “I recommend today’s tomato soup,” he says.

It’s petty of her, but she grabs a turkey sandwich to spite him. It doesn’t really matter to her, after all. She doesn’t have much of an appetite.

Several colleagues wave to her, with particular enthusiasm from her residents Dr. Rose and Dr. Schnee; she returns the greetings, but she chooses a table for two in one of the back corners.

Of course, Kiriko takes the seat across her, forcing her to scrunch her lunch and her papers side by side.

“Performed any miraculous surgeries lately?” he asks, his one eye slipping half-closed.

 _Don’t tell me you don’t know_ , she wants to retort, but doesn’t. This is a public space, and her father no doubt has someone keeping tabs on her, because goodness forbid he actually _help_ her for once.

“Well?” Kiriko prods.

She picks at the wrapping of her sandwich.

“No,” she scowls, “the board is still dithering over whether I am ready for such responsibility yet.” Her hands clench; she doesn’t want to say aloud that it’s her father’s work. “I have only three patients under my care, and even then, all surgeries are performed by Dr. Port.”

Humming pseudo-thoughtfully, Kiriko leans forward to disclose, “I know of someone who might need a little help, if you are willing to… do some side jobs.”

“I would get my license revoked,” she grumbles—even if the offer is tempting, she’s not about to risk her career even further. Not while her father is so adamant about wearing her down.

Leaning back, Kiriko shrugs.

She glances at her papers, then at her food. She’s not feeling particularly hungry, but she knows she has to do this. For Hibiki.

“Eat,” she orders, shoving a half at Kiriko. “You look emaciated enough as it is.” She nibbles at her own half of the sandwich.

“Old age is nothing fun, I assure you,” he responds, inspecting the turkey and vegetables before taking a bite.

Despite the sudden lethargy in her arms, she brings her sandwich to her mouth to eat.

It’s for Hibiki, she tells herself.

For Hibiki, she’s enduring. She’s trying her best—not for herself, it’s too soon for that, but for Hibiki.

Kiriko finishes first, and as soon as he does, he demands, “Out with it, then. How has the adjustment been treating you?”

The tomato in her mouth tastes like bile.

Rinsing out the taste with a drink of water, she pretends not to hear him; she goes so far as to reach for her papers—which are in Kiriko’s hands now.

“Ah-ah-ah.” He waves a finger at her, “there is no getting away from this, Miku. Death is not something we can disregard.”

“I hate death.” She absolutely _hates it_ , whether it be the inevitable death of her patients or the unexpected death of—of _her_. It would drive her to tears if she were a weaker person, which she isn’t.

Miku Tachibana is a _strong_ person.

“I _am_ a doctor, Miku,” Kiriko whispers.

Gripping the table by the pads of her fingers, she swallows down the lump in her throat.

“I have a therapist for this.”

“So?”

He’s not going to leave her alone. No one is. Everyone who knows will always be thinking about it when the see her. Everyone. Especially Hibiki.

“Why?” It’s all she can say, because her voice cracks and she doesn’t want to break down in the hospital’s cafeteria, because she doesn’t want them to think she’s weak, doesn’t want her father to have any more reason to keep her on the sidelines with _nothing_ to _do_. Nothing to do except think about her dead—

“Do you have any appointments after this?”

She shakes her head.

“Then,” he leans forward, “would you be opposed to taking a walk with me?”

Her immediate impulse is to decline. She’s not in any fit frame of mind to keep anyone company, and she’s not in the mood to let Kiriko psychoanalyze her.

Mostly, she’s not in the mood for tears. She knows what he’s going to ask.

Does it make her a coward, wanting to deny the truth for as long as possible? She knows it’s not a sustainable frame of mind—countless people have told her that, but…

She sighs.

“Alright,” she says.

“Wonderful.” Kiriko sweeps up the remains of their lunch and nods for her to precede him.

Her knees seem to creak as she stands, but it’s just her imagination. Ah, that is to say, it’s just her _depression_.

Her jaw trembles.

“Let us go, Miku,” Kiriko gently reminds her.

Right. This isn’t the place for tears, for weakness. It’s already bad enough that Kiriko knows.

When she steps outside the hospital, she takes a deep breath of cool air. Maybe it’s her imagination again that a burden seems to be lifted from her shoulders.

As they walk, Kiriko begins whistling—off-tune and more cheerful than Kiriko usually is.

It’s when they pass under some late cherry blossoms that Kiriko finally asks, “What happened?”

“Miscarriage.” She wants to leave it at that. He already knows, anyway. They all know, and that’s all they ever think about when they see her now.

“Indeed.”

Without meaning to, she snaps, “Don’t ‘ _indeed_ ’ me, Kiriko!”

His eye and his tired, gaunt face show empathy she doesn’t _want_.

She buries her face in her hands, hunching her shoulders and wishing futilely that Hibiki were here with her.

Above all: she wishes her daughter had lived. That’s all she wants.

“Do you know, Miku, that it is not your fault?”

Her shoulders tense.

“Miscarriage is quite common, and many of the women who—”

“—I know,” she interrupts. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t _hurt_ , Kiriko.”

“Define ‘hurt,’” is Kiriko’s answer, and she doesn’t have an answer to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Miku is my favorite character. Maybe that's why it's so easy to write her (and make her suffer). Do tell me if I'm being insensitive though -- I have to be told these things to notice, I'm afraid.
> 
> Does anyone know where Kiriko is from? He's from a certain anime I really, really recommend.
> 
> Please review!


	5. 3E | Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sneaking out... ends up not being the best idea she's had.

### E

Eight days.

That’s how long they’ve been here: only eight days, but it feels like an _eternity_.

An entire week of being introduced to new routines, of having to associate with other stupid kids, and dimwitted adults, and having to drag Elfnein around everywhere.

Except that’s not what rankles most. No—the tightness in her throat, the burning in her stomach, the ache in her jaw—she’s _upset_ because… because she can’t remember what Papa’s laugh sounds like.

Maybe it’s a stupid thing to be sad about.

She blinks and clears her throat.

How long has it been since Papa died?

Eight, nine… maybe ten days. Maybe a little longer; she’s not sure. They moved around a lot once the police arrived, and it’s mostly a blur of voices shouting and uncomfortable chairs in her mind. Ten days at the least, maybe twelve days at the most, is her best guess.

Yes, it’s a stupid thought. It hasn’t been that long. She doesn’t have to worry about forgetting Papa anytime soon.

Even so….

She sits up, fumbles with her blankets, and stumbles to her desk. Her hand skims the surface, eventually finding her glasses, though it doesn’t help much in the pitch black of the room. She thinks of turning on the overhead light, but that would wake up Elfnein, which would be more trouble than the light is worth.

Really, Elfnein needs all the sleep she can get.

Carol, on the other hand—there’s an excess of energy in her limbs.

She can’t sleep. It’s almost midnight but she knows she won’t be able to fall back asleep. Counting sheep is boring, so maybe she’ll go outside to count stars instead.

First, however, she’ll get a glass of water.

Tiptoeing to the door and peeking out, she waits for a sign of movement or sound. After a few moments, she decides the coast is clear.

There’s no one in the halls this late at night. It’s all silent; the tiles are cold against her feet. It’s all grey, too: grey floors and walls against the dark grey, almost black color of furniture and solid objects.

Everyone’s safe and tucked away, letting sleep shield them from the reality of their existence—letting their dreams give them hope of having a family to call their own someday. That, too, is a stupid thought.

Once in the kitchen, she rifles around the cabinets and drawers she can reach until she finds a set of cups made of glass. Then, she stands on her tiptoes to reach the faucet.

As she holds the half-full glass in her hands now, the impulse to shatter it against the wall abruptly makes her hands twitch. But it what good would that do? Absolutely _nothing_ —in fact, it’d wake up the staff and get in her trouble, which would put an awful dent in her plans.

So, no, she doesn’t throw her cup of water to the wall. It’s a childish impulse anyway.

Then, she takes her glass with her outside. The door to the backyard doesn’t even creak when she eases it open. Was that how it had happened with Papa? Had the door been oiled so well that he hadn’t heard… _them_ entering the cabin?

She shudders. It’s colder outside than inside, she thinks as she settles beneath the lone tree.

Here, the city’s bustle is much more audible—nothing like the villages in the countryside. _There_ , once night fell, everyone retreated into their homes, and every slightest sound would echo for all to hear.

Cars populate the air with their exhaust fumes and engine sounds, sometimes honking and sometimes screeching; Papa would’ve shook his head at the pollution.

She might like it here better, even though she should automatically dislike it because it’s worlds away from what Papa liked.

_“Environmentalists,” the mayor scoffed. “No, sir, none of that nonsense here. We are a community of hardworking farmers, doing our duty to our country. That won’t be a problem, will it, Professor?” The mayor stared hard at Papa._

_“Of course not, Madam Mayor,” Papa smiled. His eyes, too, were flinty._

That’s not to say that Carol _disagrees_ with Papa, but—well, it’s just not practical, is it?

Papa’s methods weren’t practical. Even she can acknowledge that.

She shivers again; the spring breeze that makes the leaves rustle above her seems to be more appropriate for winter.

Maybe she should go back inside. She can’t even see the stars, after all, due to the light pollution of the city.

But she likes the faint commotion of vehicles passing by, somewhere out there, on the edge. The city is never mute, and that’s—that’s important.

People don’t exist at night.

She goes back to her room, taking the empty glass with her to wait for an opportune moment to return it, and looks for her cloak. Her eyesight has long since adjusted: she can see Elfnein curled up beneath her blankets, clutching that stuffed penguin Officer Gunther gave her.

Tch.

It makes her heart squeeze in her chest, angry all over again.

Right now isn’t the time for that, however. She’s trying to fall asleep, not keep herself up.

Once she has her cloak, she goes back outside, but this time it’s to the front yard.

Here there’s no high brick wall; instead, there’s a black gate, bathed orange in the streetlight.

She stares at it for a bit.

The gate isn’t that high. She could probably climb it; she ignores Papa’s sudden appearance in her head, scolding her for being so reckless—she’s not reckless.

And, if she is, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now that Papa is gone.

So she finds herself stubbornly climbing up and perching precariously on the gates of the orphanage.

On second thought, now that she’s up here, it’s a lot higher than she thought. The metal is cold to the touch, too; she shifts uncomfortably, and her foot slips from its foothold, but she stabilizes herself with her hands.

Maybe this is a bad idea.

But… it’s kind of… _exhilarating_.

Her foot slips again—she gasps when her hand slips, too—the breeze turns into wind clawing at her clothes as she falls—stars explode across her vision.

She bites her tongue. Somehow, that hurts more than her head hitting the pavement.

Gingerly, her fingers comb through her hair; when she pulls them away, there’s something dark on them.

Ouch.

Her hand drops back down to her side, scraping against concrete. It’s the least of the pain—she’s probably just bruised along her back, and she has to spit out a bit of blood, but her head seems fine other than the bleeding.

Well….

She sits up.

It looks like she ended up on the opposite side of the gates.

Her shoulders kind of ache, too.

She pauses, blinking away the last of the blue stars.

It does hurt, a little bit.

She heaves herself onto her feet, wobbles a bit, and starts walking.

Obviously, she can’t climb back up the gate, not like this.

Where is she going, then?

She’s at the end of the street now, past all these indistinct and blurry buildings, aimless. There’s a dull pounding at the back of her head. Her hands are cold, but her cloak keeps the rest of her warm.

Cars’ taillights are red, headlights white, and the lamplight is orange—like a holographic fire, just barely mirrored against the wide windows of the dark buildings.

She stumbles but manages not to trip.

There’s a pedestrian bridge to her right all of a sudden, and, well, why not?

She’s already come this far.

And the building across the street is _literally_ on fire: flames roar, sirens wail, people shout. It’s a wonder she didn’t hear the chaos before.

They look like ants, scurrying around with their pheromone trails disrupted. Great jets of water endeavor to put out the rampant flames.

She knows it’s useless.

“Why, hello there. It’s rather late for children to be wandering around.”

Emerging from the shadows, he towers over her. His head eclipses the moon in a false halo; she can’t make out his face.

“Don’t fret, child. It’s a hero’s job to save children, and, you know, I’m a hero. A hero!” He steps into the light. His eyes are bulging and his grin is disgustingly manic; his hands are outstretched towards her.

“I—I d-don’t—” she stumbles back.

Firefighters are shouting. There’s the sound of crackling wood. The man’s tittering laugh.

She can’t help it: her eyes stray from the man, back to the building that’s on fire.

The _cabin_ is still on fire, and the men surround it, surround _her_ , refusing to let her enter the building in search of her father, and Elfnein is sobbing somewhere:

_“Papa! Papa!”_

_Carol kicked against her constraints, her enemies, but she couldn’t budge them an inch._

_It was the mayor’s fault—it_ had _to be the mayor’s fault! The traitor, ignoring everything Papa had done for them—_

_“Papa!” Elfnein screamed just as Papa himself stumbled out of the cabin._

_“Papa!”_

_He was covered in soot, but he’d be fine, he just, just—_

_“Children,” he wheezed, falling to his knees. He looked at them, at Elfnein, at Carol, and before his eyes closed, he said, “Live… and know more of the world._

_“That… my daughters… that is your—”_

_Papa collapsed._

_He didn’t get up after that, no matter how much Elfnein screamed._

_Carol could only watch._

_Papa_ , his wisdom, and his useless last words… all lost to the fire.

“Well?” the man demands, snapping his fingers. “I haven’t got all day—places to go, things to do, police to escape!”

What?

“Hey,” a new voice breaks in. “Were you separated from your parents? I can help you find them, I’m Officer—Ver!”

It takes her a moment, but she turns around to face the person talking, only for a blur to rush past her and tackle the heretofore forgotten man behind her.

The man starts shrieking, a sound that grates horribly on her ears and makes her headache worse now.

Except… all she can really think, as she turns to watch the firefighters, is that there’s going to be some serious property damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late-ish hour; I got sidetracked, heh.
> 
> My sister fell of the couch once when she was seven—that is to say, off the arm of the couch—and hit her head pretty hard against the tile; it scared the heck out of our dad but apparently she was fine after a few minutes. She said it didn't even hurt that much. Maybe she has a hard head, I guess? Anyway, we'll see what happens to Carol next chapter.
> 
> Also, tomorrow's chapter might be a little late because I'm spending the day with a friend.
> 
> Please review!


	6. 3F | Hibiki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all or nothing.

### F

Front and center, she leads the rescue mission.

It’s not what she’d come here for, but she’d never turn down a request—a _plea_ —for help!

Flames have consumed a great portion of the lower building, and they’ve blocked the most accessible escape routes; the people on the upper floors are practically sitting ducks at this point.

Well, _not_ on her watch!

Her gauntlets punch through walls with ease, her blood thundering in her ears and nearly drowning out the cackle of the fire, and within minutes—precious minutes counting against her—she’s on the second floor, shouting, “Follow me!”

“ _There’s more people beyond the wall on your left, Hibiki!_ ”

“Got it!” She pivots and her right foot smashes against the indicated wall, followed by a relentless right uppercut.

The people huddled in a corner cheer when they see her; she can’t resist a grin, but she knows it’s not over yet.

Aoi guides her to the outermost wall of the building that faces a side street, where the firefighters are waiting to help her. She enlarges the window opening with a few well-placed strikes so that she has more room to maneuver around.

“One at a time!” She directs them to form a line—those at the end cast uneasy glances at the encroaching flames, but she’s determined to get them all out in the shortest time possible.

She scoops up the first in line and _launches_ them through the opening, trusting that the firefighters below will do their part of the rescue. She doesn’t spare the time to check, because the flames are relentless, and she knows that the smoke will make it even worse.

Two, three, four, five—she tosses them all out, until the last person is left. He wheezes out, “Thank you,” before she jumps down with him in her arms.

Landing on the trampoline the firefighters set up, she tells him, “You’re welcome,” just as the paramedics take him away.

In her mind, however, she apologizes for forcing him to endure the heat, the smoke, and—above all—the fear. It was necessary… but she wishes it hadn’t been.

That moment to catch her breath and have regrets is all she gets, however, because in the next moment Aoi is shouting:

“ _Hibiki, there’s a child trapped on the fourth floor!_ ”

“Roger!”

She throws her grappling hook up to find purchase on the roof, and then she’s practically flying up to the fourth floor. She breaks the window to enter, because this isn’t the time for delicate work; from there, Aoi directs her to the young child trembling just beyond the charred remains of the staircase.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she coaxes. “Let me take you to your parents, okay?”

The child trusts her, readily clambering into her arms and clinging onto her with the surprising strength of children.

A great _fyoom_ sounds from somewhere below, likely indicating that yet another portion of the building has collapsed. The creaking all around her seems to agree.

Out the way she came in, she doesn’t toss the child down; instead, she relies once more on her grappling hook. The leather palms of her gauntlets protect her from rope burn. She won’t sustain injury at all, other than a few overused muscles, she suspects; that’s how it usually turns out.

“My son! Please, I can’t find my son!” a woman sobs, pleading with the anxious firefighters.

The ache in her muscles is _nothing_ compared to the fiery swell in her heart that she gets when she delivers the child, safe and sound, to his mother’s arms. _Here_ , she got something right.

“Oh, God, _thank you—thank you so much_!”

“It’s an honor,” she answers, watching the paramedics lead the mother and son towards one of the ambulances.

“ _Good work, Hibiki. That’s everyone._ ”

Letting the tension melt away from her shoulders, she nods absently. She lingers, watching the firefighters continue to fight against the stubborn fire; her eyes follow the insidious flames that climb up, up towards the sky—

“ _Ver spotted_ ,” Chris’ voice snaps in her earpieces, making Hibiki snap to attention. “ _Four blocks away from your current position, approaching from the south._ ”

Behind her, then.

“I’m on my way,” she promises.

 _“Don’t worry, I’ll cover your leave,_ ” Sakuya says.

“ _We’ll guide you to Chris’ location,_ ” Aoi adds.

Although she would like to stay to help out the firefighters put out the fire, she knows _this_ is far more important, so she hurries forward without sparing another thought to what she leaves behind—she can’t afford distractions now.

The space between her and Chris has narrowed down to about a block, mostly from Chris’ frantic pace than her own, when Chris curses, “ _Fuck, he gave me the slip._ ”

Hibiki slows to a stop, taking the opportunity to catch her breath and better examine her surroundings; they’ve moved out of the downtown area, she knows that much, but otherwise she doesn’t know where they are. None of the street signs make sense to her, nor does she spot any landmarks she might recognize.

She can still hear the crackle of the flames she left behind; a quick glance behind her shows that she can definitely still see them, too.

“Great,” she grumbles.

Frustration bubbles up in her heart—they’re so, _so_ close to finally catching Ver, yet so, _so_ far away!

Her fists clench and her gauntlets suddenly feel too restricting.

Aoi commands, “ _Explore the immediate area. Chris, do the same on your end, and the rest of our agents will sweep around the two of you. We have Interpol on high-alert; he won’t get away._ ”

Of course, Hibiki knows better than to believe in this type of promise, because how often has the villain slipped through their fingers in the past? Chris knows, too, judging by the furious growl that reverberates through their open channel.

But!

She has hope.

That’s why she finds herself on a pedestrian bridge: a faint hope, a merciless beacon to the future she so _ardently_ wants for her beloved friends.

She’ll leave no stone unturned!

Upon her first glance up the bridge, she doesn’t see anything or anyone, but she when she makes to move on, she catches a flash of something dark against the orange streetlight above them.

A—a kid?

“Hey,” she calls out, slowly approaching, “were you separated from your parents? I can help you find them, I’m Officer—Ver!”

It takes her a moment, unable to believe her own eyes, before she launches herself towards the frozen man.

She would’ve shot him on sight, but there’s a _civilian_ in the crossfire, so she bets on her superior strength to see her through this fight.

Her right fist swings to his head, hoping to knock him out, but he stumbles back, fumbling with something in his coat and shouting, “Not today! Never!”

“Give yourself up, Ver!” she shouts back, her left punch clipping his left shoulder.

Ver screams, surging forward to score his nails into her unprotected cheeks, only to be cut off as her fists connect with his stomach in relentless succession. His hands flail, dig into her arms, dragging her down with him when he falls, but she pins him in the stomach with her knee, using their momentum against him and catching his wrists in the process.

“Back up!” she shouts because Ver writhes and bucks beneath her, somehow summoning enough breath to shriek once again; it forces her to tighten her grip on his wrists.

“Never!” he howls, nearly dislocating his own shoulder when he shoves himself back.

“ _On my way!_ ” Chris shouts back, nearly deafening her. “ _Don’t you dare let him escape!_ ”

But then Ver rears his head to slam into hers—she has a hard head, Miku’s told her often enough, but it dazes her long enough for one of his hands to slip free of its glove.

“ _He’ll pay! Do you_ hear me, Ver! You’ll _pay_ if it’s _the last thing I ever do!_ ”

And Ver laughs, wheezing, tittering even though it should be _over_ for him, shrieking, “The heroes always win! Always!” His flailing punch barely grazes her ear.

“Hibiki!”

“ _Always!_ ” he screams, spittle flying into her face, his sputtering breath and his bulging blue eyes too close.

Something cold gets shoved under her chin, against her throat, making her choke. She forces her knee to dig into Ver’s stomach, risks letting go of Ver’s other hand in order to punch his sternum, because it’s all or—

She gasps and doesn’t hear it.

 _Fire_ races through her body like an earthquake, its epicenter her left shoulder.

Her left hand, against her will, falls limp, but it’s fine, it’s fine because Ver, too, falls limp—completely limp, his head thudding against concrete and his feral eyes finally closing.

Chris hauls her away from Ver—Chris?—barely sparing her a glance before hurrying back to Ver.

She weakly brings her right hand to press against the throbbing wellspring of pain.

A pair of handcuffs, glinting with finality, snap Ver’s wrists behind his back. For good measure, Chris cuffs Ver’s legs, as well.

That’s… that’s… Ver. That’s _Ver_ in handcuffs, unconscious, under arrest, defeated, _captured_ after so many years of suffering.

It’s… it’s over?

She’s… alive?

Chris suddenly fills her vision, her purple eyes reassuringly filled with concern. Her mouth moves, presumably saying something, but Hibiki shakes her head.

“I can’t hear,” she says—or… thinks she says, because her ears are ringing and blood oozes through the fingers of her hand and Chris’ face has become to blur around the edges.

Fingers prod at her shoulder, and she unwillingly cries out as stars explode across her vision.

Once again, Chris hauls her up, though much more gently this time, as if she’s a kid who will fall apart, which she won’t. She just needs a little bit of time to pull herself together.

Oh, but, speaking of kids…

“Find… her,” she manages to say—whisper, mumble, croak, whatever. “Is she….” Her eyes slip shut, and she doesn’t get to finish her sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the late posting (I mean, it's an hour before midnight on my end, so technically it's still your daily update)!
> 
> Also, thanks to zeroblackdragon15 for suggesting using an aggressive soundtrack to write action scenes -- I actually already have such a playlist from a project a few years ago, but I'd forgotten all about it; I tried that out in the relevant scene and I hope it shows, even if only a little.
> 
> Please review!


	7. 3G | Miku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's turning out to be a roller-coaster day.

### G

“Get out.”

“B-but,” a nurse protests, “Vice Director, the patient needs—”

“It is fine. My work is done,” she interrupts; her father looks ready to snarl, so she steps away from the patient’s bed and the nurses without protest. Peeling her gloves off, she orders, “Perform the necessary diagnostics and have the report delivered to my office.”

A vein twitches in her father’s forehead, but he mercifully does not question her authority in front of her staff.

“Yes, Doctor Tachibana,” they murmur.

It’s with great reluctance that she leaves her element to see what her father wants, but it has to be done, sooner or later.

Father stews in cantankerous silence until they reach his office. He pulls the curtains over the windows overlooking the floor’s central room, closes the door, and finally sits down behind his desk with a gesture that she sit in front of him.

She does so, wishing she didn’t feel like a silly little girl being reprimanded by her father.

“The board of directors,” Father says, making her tense, “has decided to end your probation.”

She blinks.

His scowl fades into something… tired; he doesn’t look at her when he adds, “You may return to performing surgeries as you have done before. That is all.”

When he had barged into the patient’s room, livid and discourteous as a Kohinata should never be, she had expected—something worse than this. Something _other_ than good news. Then again, this probably _is_ bad news in his eyes.

“Go on,” Father dismisses her again with a jerk of his chin.

“Thank you, Vice Director,” she replies, standing. She goes to the door, hesitates for a moment, but ultimately swallows the words she’s never had the courage to say.

Outside her father’s office, she takes a moment to let the news sink in: she can go back to performing surgeries again!

She can’t stop the smile that breaks free. She can’t wait to tell Hibiki; of course, Hibiki will doubtlessly crow about how her “recklessness” did indeed turn out for the best.

“The benefits of working for the military, eh?” Kiriko sidles up to her with a smirk.

Her smile falters, but she isn’t bothered very much.

“Heard the news already?” she drawls back. It’s not a surprise, given that Kiriko has a way of knowing everything that goes on around him.

Kiriko’s smirk widens and he chuckles, “Commander Kazanari certainly put the fear of God into the board of directors. Granted, they would be absolute fools to keep you on the sidelines—terrible waste of talent.”

If it hadn’t been for Genjuurou’s intervention, then she would probably still be, as Kiriko said, stuck on the sidelines. All the talent in the world wouldn’t have gotten her this far.

“Talent,” she reminds Kiriko, “is only a very small fraction of it. Remember, success is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.”

“Of course, of course,” Kiriko grins.

“Now, as much as I enjoy your company—” Kiriko scoffs and rolls his only eye—“ _really_ , I enjoy your company. But I want to check on my wife and my latest patient.”

His expression suddenly becomes serious; he stops walking, and she pauses when she realizes she has left him behind.

Her own elation begins to dwindle away.

“I leave in a few minutes,” Kiriko tells her, so gently that she almost doesn’t believe him.

“Oh,” is all she can say. It’s been a week since he arrived—he isn’t the type of person to stay in one place for very long.

“Remember, Miku, that you are not a burden.” He hesitates, as if to say more, but that’s all he says. He raises a hand, gives her a nearly imperceptible wave, and calls over his shoulder, “I expect to find Miku when I next return!”

She stares after him, half-tempted to run after her old mentor. His lab coat flutters around a convenient corner and she didn’t even say goodbye.

Her chest feels like a minefield of too-strong emotions and she has to blink rapidly to clear away a few tears that have gathered at the corners of her eyes.

By the time she reaches her patient’s room, the notion has passed; she has her stalwart smile firmly in place.

She eases the door open so as not to wake her patient. The nurses have all left, leaving the heart monitor to be the only source of sound and light in the darkened room. Perhaps it’s for the best that she can’t properly see her patient, because her patient is a little girl and, well—

Girls are always going to be a sore spot for her, aren’t they?

But her quota for emotional tug-of-war has been reached.

Everything seems in order, from what her quick glance gathers, so she eases the door shut instead of dwelling further. Besides, next on her list of tasks is visiting Hibiki, a floor up.

Will Hibiki be awake this time?

When she reaches Hibiki’s room, twisting her wedding ring over and over again, she hesitates.

It’s because she hesitates that she hears the murmur of voices on the other side—the door is open, just a sliver, and Hibiki’s bewilderment leaks through:

“Miku’s upset with me.”

That… is true, but not for the reasons Hibiki believes.

“I know,” Chris’ voice answers. “She told me.”

Reluctantly.

“Has she told you anything else?” Hibiki asks, a trace of forlorn desperation in her tone that makes Miku wish it were easier.

There’s a note of sympathy in Chris’ voice when she says, “No.”

No, because it’s not Chris who needs to hear what she has to say.

“I don’t know what to do,” Hibiki laments.

And she wants to make it better, she really does; therefore, she pushes the door open with the intent of—of something.

“Good,” she smiles at Hibiki, who squeaks, “you’re awake today. Hello, Chris.”

Chris nods to her, gives her an encouraging smile, and says gruffly, “Afternoon, doc. Are you here in the professional capacity or the domestic one?”

Hibiki sits up a little straighter, obviously hoping for the latter.

“Domestic,” she answers, grinning at Hibiki’s delighted cheer.

“Then I’ll leave you lovebirds alone,” Chris grimaces, to the shared laughter of Hibiki and Miku.

But then they’re alone, Chris’ hand on her shoulder already a fading thought, and their smiles disappear. She stays in her position by the door; Hibiki doesn’t ask her to come closer.

“I missed you,” are Miku’s first words to her wife in three weeks—hurried, tense, blurry Skype calls don’t count.

Hibiki says, softly, “I missed you, too. I’m glad to be back.”

“Not in one piece,” she notes archly.

“I brought someone with me,” Hibiki deflects. There’s something in Hibiki’s eyes. A question, maybe? A bashful, half-sheepish caution that almost always precedes one of Hibiki’s crazier ideas…

“Yes, I know. She’s doing well,” she adds in answer to the much clearer question on Hibiki’s face. Despite the elephant in the room, she steps closer to Hibiki's bed.

Hibiki nods, twiddles her thumbs, pats the space beside her in invitation.

“Good, good… so, um, what do you think of adopting her?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah... sorry... heh. I suppose this means there will be two chapters today? I really need to get better about these things.


	8. 3H | Miku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She must be crazy, but if it's Hibiki....

### H

“Hibiki,” she says, stopping in her tracks.

Surely she didn’t hear that correctly.

“I—I know we have a lot going on, and lots of things have happened lately, and, and—please, Miku?” Hibiki begs, the bedsheets rustling from her nervous movements and her hands clasping in front of her in supplication.

“This is… sudden,” she says, because that is honestly all she can think of right now.

Hibiki scratches the back of her head, smiling guiltily and saying, “See, I’ve thought it about it a lot—well, I mean, as much as I could, considering I was out of it for a while….” Hibiki laughs weakly when Miku frowns. “A-anyway, I—I think she could be good for us, and we come be good for her! We could, we could give her the family she needs, and she could—”

“—Replace our daughter?”

Gasping, Hibiki stares at her, a stricken look on her face that matches the too-familiar hot twist of grief in Miku’s heart.

She knows that’s not how Hibiki meant it. Hibiki just wants everyone to be happy. Hibiki wants to save everyone she possibly can.

“Hibiki,” she repeats, this time with too much pain leaking into her voice.

And Hibiki, her darling Hibiki, opens her arms—Hibiki forgives her, just like that, because this is who Hibiki is.

It makes her teeth clench and an awful self-loathing well up in the back of her throat, yet she finds herself sinking into Hibiki’s embrace regardless.

“Do you understand what you’re asking, Hibiki?” she whispers.

Hibiki murmurs, “Of course. I know it’s totally out of the blue, we haven’t talked about it, not like Tsubasa and Maria have been discussing for a while now, but I swear, Miku, it’s the right decision. Please, trust me when I say that this is the right decision for all of us.”

 _That doesn’t matter_ , she wants to shout. Doesn’t Hibiki see how _unfit_ Miku is to be a mother? How she can’t bear to be in the presence of children anymore? Doesn’t Hibiki understand that she can’t be a parent when she can barely keep herself together?

“Do you really think this will make a difference?”

“Yes,” Hibiki says, her arms tightening around Miku, because Hibiki whole-heartedly believes this is meant to be, like destiny, like fate.

And she hates to say it, hates to acknowledge how weak she really is—but Hibiki’s conviction is no longer enough for her, not after what she’s gone through.

“Listen, Hibiki,” she sighs. The only way to dissuade Hibiki is to make her see why this is a bad decision. “Both you and I work a lot. We’re not home often enough to be good parents. More than that, we haven’t been on the best of terms lately,” which is putting it lightly.

“We’re not in the right frame of mind to have someone under our care.”

With each reason she lists, Hibiki’s shoulders slump further and her own heart hurts in tandem.

It’s not that she doesn’t want a family with Hibiki. More than anything, she wants to go back to those early days in their marriage, their relationship, before—before everything started falling apart.

“Miku,” Hibiki murmurs. She leans forward to rest her forehead on Miku’s shoulder.

“You’ll hurt your shoulder more,” she half-heartedly scolds for lack of a will to do anything else. It’s been too long since she last felt Hibiki’s warmth around her.

“I’ll be fine,” Hibiki reassures her. “It doesn’t even hurt right now!”

With a laugh, she points out, “That’s because you’re on morphine right now, sunshine. In a few hours you’ll be regretting this.”

“Never,” Hibiki says with undue seriousness. “I’ll never regret anything I’ve done for you.”

Her smile fades as quickly as it had arrived.

Maybe it’s just her.

“Carol’s a good kid,” Hibiki continues, and Miku lets her explain herself. “It’s just… she lost her father about two weeks ago and she’s not taking it well. She hates the orphanage.”

“So you brought her with you?”

Hibiki nods, the movement echoing in Miku’s body.

“All the way from Germany?” she clarifies.

“Yeah—I mean, she’s already a Japanese citizen, apparently. It was just taking a while for the police to sort through all that bureaucracy stuff, but eventually she and her sister were going to come back here.”

She frowns, wondering, “The police? Her sister?” She gets the sinking feeling that Hibiki is, as usual, oversimplifying the entire situation.

For a long moment, Hibiki remains silent; her arms shifting around Miku gives away Hibiki’s nervousness.

“Hibiki?” she prods.

“Um, well, it’s kind of classified stuff,” Hibiki hedges, mumbling against Miku’s shoulder. “And, uh, we’re not… I mean, her sister—well, it’s just Carol right now. Chris thinks it’s best to separate them, and I guess I kinda agree…?”

“Does she even know what you’re planning?”

If Hibiki weren’t confined to her hospital bed right now, she would undoubtedly be edging away to the nearest exit.

“She doesn’t,” Miku says for Hibiki.

“No, she doesn’t,” Hibiki mumbles. “I—I was hoping we could tell her together….”

This should be where Miku firmly puts her foot down, for all of the reasons she previously stated.

Yet she inexplicably, irrationally says, “Yes.”

“R-Really?”

She kind of wants to take back her answer, but there’s a kindle of hope in her chest, something that only Hibiki can draw out of her.

Something along the lines of: this will be okay.

“Hibiki,” she warns, not only for Hibiki but for herself, as well, “this isn’t going to be as easy as you think it will be. We’re playing with fire here, and I expect it’s going to hurt a lot. Are _you_ certain?”

“I am,” Hibiki tells her, nearly squeezing the life out of her. “I promise, Miku, we won’t regret this.”

 Hope is all the guarantee they have, but… for the moment, she allows herself to simply trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out shorter than I expected. This one and the last were written purely from scratch, so it's been pretty frustrating, heh. Maybe because marital strife makes me kind of... anxious....
> 
> Please review!


	9. 3I | Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She might as well go with them, she supposes, for lack of anything better.

### I

It’s bright. Terribly bright.

“—? Carol?” someone asks in a terribly thick accent.

She squeezes her eyes further. She’s not in the mood for anything.

Rustling, then the light fades and steps walk away.

[***]

It’s a terrible realization: “How are you, Carol?”

She understands the words said—even though they’re not spoken in German. Everyone here has that horrendous accent when it comes to her name.

There’s something like her heart being squeezed, because she just _knows_ that Papa is far away, out of her reach. Where is Elfnein? Where is she herself, for that matter?

Ignorance makes her antsy, and being antsy….

She doesn’t reply when the nurse peers at her and repeats his question.

[***]

Inevitably, however, her recalcitrance snaps. She punches the doctor in white.

As far as punches go, the act definitely hurts her hand and does nothing to make her feel better. Maybe she’s being melodramatic, like Papa says she always is, but the bruising on her hand doesn’t hurt nearly as badly as—as the loss of her home.

The doctor cradles her jaw, blinking, then smiles almost imperceptibly.

“I am Dr. Miku Tachibana. It’s nice to meet you, Carol.”

As far as reactions go, that was not at all an expected one.

She still doesn’t answer their questions.

[***]

It starts to grate on her, Dr. Tachibana’s bizarre calm, so she snaps, “I’m fine,” the third time Dr. Tachibana asks her how she’s doing.

The words feel awkward, heavy in her mouth. It’s another reminder that she’s not at home.

“Good,” is Dr. Tachibana’s blithe response as she notes something down on her clipboard, as if this isn’t the first time Carol has spoken.

“How… long…,” she trails off. She doesn’t remember how to say _here_ —there’s a memory of Papa teaching them prepositions, but she’s pretty sure _here_ is an adverb. “How long… I am…?”

If only her Japanese was as good as Elfnein’s.

“How long have you been here?” Dr. Tachibana asks with enviable ease.

She nods; her mind seizes on the word _here_ , in this foreign tongue, and the verb tense, in this foreign sentence structure.

“Three days.” Dr. Tachibana gestures to the bedside table, “Drink plenty of—.”

Not recognizing the word Dr. Tachibana uses, she frowns until she realizes that Dr. Tachibana is pointing at a cup of water on the bedside table.

For the principle of the thing, she considers refusing, but she’s not really interested in making herself suffer more, so she does as she’s told—just the once, of course.

Dr. Tachibana nods, smiles that almost-nonexistent smile of hers, and leaves.

[***]

Instead of Dr. Tachibana, Officer Tachibana visits her one dull, bright morning.

Are they related? Officer Tachibana’s hair and eyes are completely different from Dr. Tachibana’s—it could _possibly_ be genetics, but she thinks it’s highly unlikely.

“Carol!” Officer Tachibana grins, laughs sheepishly, and scuffs her boots against the linoleum. “I’m sorry for not—. I’ve—been stuck in bed, even though my—is all better. Miku thinks I’ll hurt myself again.”

From the way that Officer Tachibana grimaces and grips at her shoulder, Carol can hazard a guess that Officer Tachibana was injured.

Injured, though Officer Tachibana had been fine when they… met….

She frowns.

The memory is blurry. Well, Dr. Tachibana did say that she’d come in unconscious from intense migraines, and that they’d had to cut a part of her skull out. It’s too bad they put the piece back in; she would’ve liked to see it.

“So, um, I was wondering how you like it here? I mean, you haven’t been out—. But, you know, so far…?” Officer Tachibana smiles tentatively.

Here.

It’s Officer Tachibana’s fault that she’s _here_ , that she’s been separated from Elfnein.

Her tongue almost bleeds from the force of her biting it, but she refuses to speak to Tachibana.

“Carol?” Tachibana shuffles closer, perching on the edge of the visitor’s chair, confused as if she doesn’t know what she’s _done_.

 _Idiot_.

The beeping of the heart monitor—heretofore ignored—picks up its pace, and Tachibana’s smile slips off her face.

“I’m—I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

[***]

It’s bright again.

“You’ll wake her up, Hibiki,” murmurs Dr. Tachibana’s voice. “Close the curtains a bit.”

“R-right,” says Tachibana’s voice.

Silence.

Is her heart beating too fast? She hopes it doesn’t give her away; this might be a conversation worth eavesdropping on.

“She’s angry, Hibiki,” Dr. Tachibana says, though there isn’t much of a reprimand in her voice. “Particularly at you.”

Indignation flares in her stomach: why _wouldn’t_ she be angry at Tachibana? It’s not like she got a _choice_ —she just fell asleep in Berlin and woke up in Tokyo, of all places! She’s a fish out of water now, and it’s all Tachibana’s fault.

“It’s the right choice.”

“Not all of us have that sixth sense, Hibiki.” It’s said gently, as if Dr. Tachibana is _coddling_ the other.

Her teeth clench.

“I know. That’s why I have to convince you—both of you,” Tachibana promises, which is an interesting bit of information.

 _Both of you_.

 _I have to convince you_. “You,” as in, Dr. Tachibana, the person who barely smiles.

“We’ll see, Hibiki,” Dr. Tachibana sighs the sigh of people who just want to mollify someone but don’t really mean it.

Footsteps, then silence once again.

[***]

Intermittently, both Officer Tachibana and Dr. Tachibana come visit her; she has observed, however, that they rarely come together.

That alone makes this visit an anomaly, but what _really_ makes her wary is the hesitance that crosses Dr. Tachibana’s face when they enter her hospital room.

Dr. Tachibana’s faint smile really is nonexistent right now.

Although Tachibana makes as if to speak, Dr. Tachibana interrupts her with a sharp look that Tachibana immediately heeds. Dr. Tachibana takes a seat on the only chair in the room, while Tachibana takes up the spot behind Dr. Tachibana, like some loyal guard dog.

“You are to be discharged in two days, Carol,” Dr. Tachibana starts, though Carol already knows that. “I know this is not ideal, not at all what you want—” what do _they_ know of what she wants?—“but Hibiki and I would like to offer you our home.”

“No,” is her answer. She doesn’t even have to think about it.

“Okay,” Dr. Tachibana nods, overriding Tachibana’s cry of protest. “I will make arrangements at our affiliate orphanage, then.”

Something inside her pinches at the thought of: another orphanage. Alone. Without Elfnein.

But she doesn’t want to live with _Tachibana_ , so she says nothing in protest.

Dr. Tachibana tells her a little bit more about her recovery, then leaves with Tachibana in tow.

[***]

“I just… I just want to make sure you’ve made up your mind.”

In keeping with her resolution, she doesn’t say anything. She stares down at her fists and lets Tachibana talk, but she doesn’t reply, doesn’t even deign to _look_ at Tachibana.

Tachibana sighs. The chair scrapes against the floor, grating and annoying; then, Tachibana’s surprisingly light footsteps echo in the room.

“Can I tell you something?”

She lets her silence be her answer—not that Tachibana takes it as the _no_ it’s supposed to be.

“Miku and I—well, mostly Miku,” and here Tachibana’s voice cracks, “—we lost our daughter a few months ago. I wasn’t there for her. Before everything, I mean. I left her alone all the time, I came home late, I made her worry….” The pacing pauses.

She is pretty sure she doesn’t want to hear the marital problems of Dr. and Officer Tachibana, but she’s stuck.

Sighing, Tachibana whispers, “I don’t want her to be lonely. I don’t want _you_ to be lonely, Carol. That’s why I think you would be good for each other.”

“Elfnein.”

“What?” Tachibana sounds startled to hear her speak and completely overlooks the _real_ matter at hand.

The self-righteous hero has forgotten that Carol has been _forcibly_ separated from Elfnein and relocated to a completely different company, yet she claims she doesn’t want Carol to be _lonely_? Even if she does feel bad for Dr. Tachibana, it’s just—

Madness. She’s just a kid. She’s tired. She misses her Papa.

“Carol,” Tachibana murmurs, all morose, “everyone I spoke to mentioned that you don’t get along with your little sister.”

 _Twin_ sister—except, it’s true and she doesn’t want to admit it, because Papa would be so disappointed in her. It takes all the bluster out of her.

“And… I think… this is for me, too.” The pacing resumes. “I know it’s selfish,” Tachibana adds, coincidentally echoing Carol’s thoughts. “But don’t we have to be selfish, sometimes, to help others? Sometimes the goodness of our hearts… isn’t enough,” and then Tachibana dissolves into incoherent mumbles.

She’s not sure what Tachibana is on about—it sounds like she has a story all _in medias res_ , and philosophy isn’t really her forte—but she thinks about the morning she punched Dr. Tachibana.

Illogical, irrational though it is, she can’t help but say, “Okay. I’ll go with you,” all because of a faint smile she can’t puzzle out.


	10. 3J | Hibiki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's a bit Machiavellian....

### J

_“Just… just leave me alone.”_

_Miku covered her face with an arm, feigning a calm they both knew she didn’t have. She looked so small, so fragile against the white sheets._

_“I’m sorry.” It was all she could say, and she felt stupid for sounding like a broken record._

_“Don’t be. You didn’t know.” Miku didn’t mean it as a rebuke, but it felt like one._

_“I won’t leave you. I’ll never, ever leave you—I promise.”_

_Miku’s chest rose and fell, slow like her heartbeat. Resigned, maybe…?_

_“Too little, too late.”_

_What?_

_“Your promises mean nothing to me, Hibiki.”_

_No, please—_

_“Just go. Leave me alone, like you’ve always done.”_

Jolting up, gasping, flailing, reaching for Miku—only for her hand to meet cold sheets, because Miku has already left for work.

Her breath comes in short bursts and a dull throbbing starts up in her shoulder again, but when she starts crying, it’s because of the words that Miku has never said to her. When she starts crying, it’s because she wonders if this is how Miku felt whenever she woke up alone after a nightmare, without Hibiki home to reassure her.

“I… I’m… sorry….”

She sinks back into bed, burying her face in her pillow and barely mindful of her shoulder.

It takes her a few minutes to get her breathing under control; the same, however, can’t be said of her thoughts. She can’t shake off the needling accusation that she’s brought nothing but pain to Miku.

Maybe Miku loves her too much for her own good.

Then her cellphone starts buzzing and ringing, making her yelp in surprise. She scrambles out of bed to find it, hastily wiping away the tears on her cheeks and clearing her throat. She finds it on her bedside table—Miku probably left it there for her—and answers just seconds before the call goes to voicemail.

“H-Hello?”

“Did you barely wake up?” Chris’ grumpy voice demands. “Do you have an idea what time it is? I bet you forgot, too.”

“Uh…,” her mind goes blank with abrupt bewilderment.

Chris sighs a long-suffering sigh and says, “It’s nearly noon and you promised you’d have lunch with me before my plane leaves in the evening.”

“OH.” She launches herself across the room—or, she _would_ if her legs didn’t feel like jelly. As it is, she settles for stumbling and flailing around as quickly as she can with a wounded shoulder and jelly legs.

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Chris drawls. “Try not to hurt yourself, by the way; Miku won’t hesitate to put my life in jeopardy if a single hair on your head is harmed.” Hibiki would sputter out a retort, but she’s busy tugging on jeans with one hand. “Anyway, meet me at that café by your place.”

Five minutes and one stubbed toe later, she jogs out of her house, jacket trailing behind her like a cape—she can’t help but grin and think of herself as Superman or Batman, defender of justice.

Luckily for her, the café Chris mentioned is only half a block away from her house. In fact, she and Miku used to go on dates there every weekend, before…

Before they both got too busy, she glumly realizes.

“There you are,” Chris says when Hibiki finally stumbles to a halt by her table. It looks like Chris, too, is bothered—then again, brooding is kind of Chris’ default state when she’s not with Miku or Maria. Getting Chris to cheer up is a work in progress.

“Chris… hey…,” Hibiki wheezes between breaths. She’s really starting to get out of shape, even though she’s only been on bedrest for a week.

“You look marginally better out of the hospital,” Chris remarks, smirking.

Plopping down across Chris, Hibiki huffs, “I _feel_ a lot better out of that place,” which makes Chris roll her eyes.

“I already ordered your favorite tea.” Chris pushes a cup Hibiki hadn’t noticed towards her.

“Oh, thanks!” She immediately takes a large gulp.

Chris waits until Hibiki is sipping at her tea normally to say, “Hey, your shirt’s on backwards.”

“Really?” she wails, looking down at her shirt, “I’m cursed. Utterly and thoroughly cursed!”

“I’m joking,” Chris snickers.

Hibiki looks down at her shirt again, puzzled, then realizes that Chris is indeed joking; she pouts and hides her blushing face behind her cup, to Chris’ renewed amusement.

“You’re lucky you didn’t get your dominant side shot, aren’t you?” Chris says, watching Hibiki use her right hand to drink as usual while her left rested on her leg. “Then again, you’re ambidextrous, so you’re lucky either way. Humph.”

“Yep!” she nods jauntily and puffs up a little.

For a moment, Chris looks about ready to laugh, but it fades into a fond smirk.

Getting Chris to cheer up is _definitely_ a work in progress; she idly wonders if Kirika and Shirabe have had much luck on their end.

“So.” That’s all the preamble Chris gives. She toys with the spoon in her drink, murmuring, “I hate to leave Miku behind.”

Just like that, the mood evaporates.

“I know,” she answers, feeling hollow. Her knee starts to jitter as her anxiety mounts.

“Both of you are such idiots,” Chris sighs, her shoulders slumping.

There… is nothing she can say in response, except, “Miku isn’t an idiot.” She says it more defensively than she meant to, but the point stands.

“Hn,” is Chris’ disbelieving answer.

She wilts a little. Her thoughts from this morning—well, from just about an hour ago—come back to her: she hurts Miku too much, without even meaning to…. That, at least, is true. Everyone can see it; everyone can see how much Hibiki doesn’t _deserve_ Miku.

“I think,” Chris begins, the words almost visibly measured, and that jaded gaze looking at memories beyond Hibiki’s understanding, “you have… taken a great gamble, Hibiki. With your wife, with the kid you plucked out of nowhere, and with that kid’s twin sister we left alone in an orphanage.”

“I have to trust that I’ve made the right decision,” she answers, chin up—not quite defensive, but resolute. It’s too late to back out now.

“Who knows, Hibiki,” Chris mutters with a despondent shrug. “The judge and jury are still out on that one. The levels of deception here are…,” Chris’ eyebrows knit together in a heavy frown, “more than I’m comfortable with.”

Hibiki takes a moment to ruminate over the growing list of their deceptions: Ver’s capture, first and foremost, has been kept under tight wraps. Not even Maria has been notified of his arrest. Second, no one knows that Chris has been in Japan the last week, not even Kirika and Shirabe; as far as everyone (bar Miku) knows, Chris has only taken a small detour.

Finally, Hibiki and Chris have placed Elfnein at Schnee Orphanage, and Hibiki plans on nudging Tsubasa and Maria there. This last one is, perhaps, the worst of all.

None of it sits well with her.

“What’s that saying? ‘It’s always darkest before dawn.’”

Chris shakes her head, “I can only hope that we are doing the right thing.”

Hibiki has no answer for that, because:

Judgement is a tricky thing, if even worthwhile.


	11. 3K | Hibiki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The build up to something.

### K

“Kiddo,” her dad says, his sigh a heavy gust of air against the speaker, and that’s all he has to say for her to know that he thinks it’s a bad idea.

“But, Dad, I’m _sure_ this is the best decision! Once Miku realizes that she _can_ be a mother, everything else will fall into place,” she insists, trying to convince him despite it being pointless.

She just… wants someone to reassure her.

“Hibiki… do you remember when I asked you to talk to your mom for me?”

Her throat constricts. A knife twists in her heart. There’s only one instance Dad is referring to. That time, those emotions, that helplessness—she tries not to remember.

“Even you knew it was a bad idea, that it was _wrong_ ,” her dad continues, laughing ruefully. “Involving an innocent kid in your problems with Miku isn’t the solution, Hibiki. We both know it causes more pain than it’s worth.”

“This isn’t the same.” It’s not. Miku isn’t going to leave her. They’re not demanding anything of Carol. That kind of pressure is exactly what she’s trying to avoid.

Dad sighs again, but he says, “Okay. It’s going to be okay, Hibiki.”

The knot in her stomach unravels a little bit.

“Thanks, Dad,” she smiles, and right on time because Miku exits the hospital at that moment. “I have to go.” She waves to get Miku’s attention.

“Alright. Take care of yourself, and send my love to Miku,” her dad replies.

“’Kay. Love you.”

Smiling faintly, Miku comes to a stop about a foot in front of her, her hands clasped behind her back and her head tilted slightly in curiosity.

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” Miku says.

Once upon a time, Miku would have greeted her with a kiss. Has it been that long, already?

Caught up in her worries as she is, the soft, almost ticklish sensation on her cheek catches her by surprise, making her squeak.

Rolling her eyes, Miku pulls away; a soft smile lingers on her lips when she gently rebukes, “You’re spacing out again.” Then Miku’s smile flickers. “The scratches are almost gone,” Miku murmurs, fingers tracing the faint marks Ver left on her face. “But your shoulder….”

“I’m okay,” she promises, leaning her cheek into Miku’s touch. “It’ll take a lot more than that to kill me.”

Miku pulls away, and Hibiki curses internally at her lack of tact.

“Hand me the keys?” Miku asks, smiling faintly again, as if the last few seconds didn’t happen.

“I can drive just fine with only my right hand. I drove here, after all,” she pouts but digs into her jacket pocket to give them to Miku.

Being the one in the passenger seat, being the one taken care of, being the one left behind—it doesn’t sit well with her. It’s like a sweater that’s just a little bit too tight around the shoulders: bearable, but annoying, chafing.

Yet this is only a faint taste of what Miku felt on a daily basis back when they were still teenagers. Rationally—not that she’s one for rational thinking—she knows Miku hadn’t liked being stuck on the sidelines.

Knowing and _knowing_ , however, are two different things.

And now that Miku’s a surgeon… well, the only thing holding her back is Hibiki, even if she refuses to say it.

“We have to stop by the department store to get a few things for Carol,” Miku says, breaking the melancholic silence.

“Clothes,” she remembers and smacks her forehead for completely forgetting. “Of course.”

Miku laughs—fond, exasperated, kind.

Small mercies, she supposes, that she can still bring a smile to Miku, that her sunshine peeks out behind grey skies.

“I’ve already set the guest room up for her,” Miku continues, “so the only thing we need is clothes for her… and groceries.” The last part is quiet, a bit rushed, a bit… _guilty_.

Keen reflexes aren’t the only thing she has cultivated as part of the Second Division: she can confidently say that her ability to parse entire stories from a handful of details has greatly improved (mostly thanks to Tsubasa, a relentless instructor).

Guilt and groceries, for instance, means that Miku hasn’t been eating as well as she should.

Miku hasn’t had much of an appetite lately, she knows.

“Speaking of food!” She chuckles, letting her tone be sheepish, “Do you mind if we stop somewhere for a pre-dinner snack? I’m kinda hungry.” It’s not a lie; she _is_ kind of hungry.

“You and your stomach,” Miku laughs and shrugs in acquiescence.

It would make her feel guilty, tricking Miku into eating like this, but it’s necessary. Sometimes these things are necessary.

“But you love me anyway,” she teases before she can stop herself. There she goes, being tactless and forcing things onto Miku.

So it takes her by surprise when Miku murmurs, “Of course I do.”

They sit in uneasy silence—afraid of each other, and isn’t that heartbreakingly funny?—in the parking lot of the local park. It looks like she and Miku have had the same train of thought:

“We need to talk.”

Miku startles, turns to stare at her with panic in her eyes; it’s like a kick to the gut, that expression on Miku’s face that _Hibiki_ elicited.

“Okay.” Miku nods, almost visibly tucks away her panic back into herself. Her hands clench the steering wheel, but Miku affirms, “We should, before Carol arrives tomorrow. We’ve put it off long enough.”

People know Hibiki is brave. It’s hard to be in her line of work without being brave. Miku, on the other hand, gets underestimated a lot. It makes Hibiki want to shout from the rooftops to tell the world how amazing really Miku is.

The next few minutes are something of a blur: they find a park bench, they make sure not to sit too close to each other, Miku reminds her to take her pain medication, and silence falls between them again.

She wonders if this is how her mom and dad felt—the fear of hurting the one you trust the most and the fear of being hurt by the person you trust and love the most. The very knowledge that it’s come to this…

Maybe that’s the real reason why she called her dad.

“I don’t… know where to start,” she admits, staring down at her open hands. She wants to take Miku’s hand into her own, be close like they used to be, but… she’s afraid.

Very afraid.

“I would say ‘start from the beginning,’ but the beginning—” Miku cuts herself off with a shake of her head.

They have different definitions of “the beginning,” don’t they?

But now isn’t the time for hesitation. She reaches over the space between them, and takes one of Miku’s cool hands into her own.

Kissing the knuckles of Miku’s hand, she says, “Tell me everything. I’m listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of glossing over the actual conversation, but... I'm not sure. Thoughts?


	12. 3L | Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's not sure what to make of the knot in her chest.

### L

Love.

It’s not like she doesn’t know what it is; she loves her Papa, after all, and she loves Elfnein (except she has a terrible, awful, horrendous way of showing it), and she loves learning all sorts of things.

But _this_ kind of love—the type where people hold hands to bridge the distance between seats, the kind where smiles are exchanged over nothing, the love where lips brush against cheeks—it’s alien to her.

Her face instinctively scrunches up when Tachibana and Dr. Tachibana lean forward to kiss each other on the lips, just briefly but long enough to make Carol tap her fingers against the car door in impatience. It’s not that the sight _bothers_ her, or anything. It’s just… weird, in a way she’s never considered.

 _Romantic_ love, that’s what this is.

“Well, Carol, um,” Tachibana shuffles her feet and Dr. Tachibana comes to stand beside her, squeezing Tachibana’s hand in what is probably a reassuring manner.

Did Papa ever want something like this?

Brightening up, Tachibana declares, “Welcome home, Carol!”

Tch. _Home sweet home_ , right?

Still, it beats staying in an orphanage full of other miserable kids, and she’s curious, so she looks past Tachibana to examine the latest residence on a long list of them.

It’s a nice enough house, not that Carol has any standards 0r precedents to compare to, since she’s spent most of her life in cabins.

Maybe it’s a good thing that she’ll live here for the foreseeable future. It’s a house, painted a light green with white brick along the bottom, a front porch complete with a couple of rocking chairs that looks like it could belong in a picture book, and flower beds pretty much everywhere possible.

It’s a house, not a cabin like the one her father died in. It’s a house, not an orphanage where she barely felt anything.

“Let’s go inside,” Tachibana suggests, bouncing eagerly on her feet. “I can’t wait to show you your room!”

Dr. Tachibana only smiles and nods along.

“’Kay,” she mutters. Following after Tachibana, Dr. Tachibana behind them, she pauses over the threshold.

Life, she thinks, is going to be a lot different now.

“Carol?” Dr. Tachibana asks behind her. Tachibana is already in the house, shouting something about colors and patterns.

“I…,” she stops. She’s not sure what she wants to say. She’s not even sure what the churning in her stomach means—is she angry? Is she scared? Upset?

A light touch brushes her shoulder as Dr. Tachibana murmurs, “There’s no rush. You’ll stay with us for as long as you want. We only want to help.”

She doesn’t say anything in response, but somehow finds it in herself to walk forward again, heading to the source of Tachibana’s loud, “Eh?”

“There you are!” Tachibana perks up, like a dog, and barrels on with wide gestures, “so I know the room’s a little small, but I like to think it’s cozy, and as soon as I get your stuff out of the trunk you can rearrange things to how you like—I hope you don’t mind that we picked out some clothes for you, but we can always go shopping again if you want, and we could even repaint—”

“Breathe, Hibiki,” Dr. Tachibana interrupts, laying a hand on Tachibana’s shoulder.

Some of the tension in Tachibana’s rigid shoulders melts away at the touch, and Tachibana grins widely at Dr. Tachibana, who smiles in return.

It’s _romantic_ love that makes Dr. Tachibana’s faint smile more solid than usual.

Looking away from them, she glances over the little bed in the corner, the bedside table, the desk, the bookshelves already filled with books, the armoire, all in matching dark wood. There’s a window between the bed and the desk, something green peeking in beyond the yellow curtains. It’s more or less like the other rooms she’s lived in.

“Carol.” She turns at the sound of her name, briefly meeting the gaze of Dr. Tachibana before frowning down at the floor. “As in all households, there will be a few rules we must abide—” Tachibana makings a pouting face behind Dr. Tachibana—“stop that, Hibiki.”

Tachibana grins sheepishly; Carol does not return the sentiment.

“First,” Dr. Tachibana continues with a stern glance over her shoulder, “you may call me Miku, and you may call her Hibiki, since ‘Mrs. Tachibana’ will become confusing.”

“Do I have to?”

Unfazed, Dr. Tachibana replies, “Well, won’t it be awkward to always address us as Dr. and Officer Tachibana? For the foreseeable future we will be your guardians, thus….” Dr. Tachibana shrugs lightly, still with that slight smile.

She concedes with a slight nod, but secretly resolves never to call Tachibana by her first name; it’s not a familiarity she wants to have.

“Good. Now, I think most schools—” schools? Real, proper schools?—“are on summer break right now, so we can get that settled later on. Since I work most of the day, you and Hibiki should settle your daily routines amongst yourselves.” At that, Tachibana perks up, only for Dr. Tachibana to say, “I expect you will not goof off all the time, especially you, Hibiki,” and Tachibana deflates.

“Okay,” is all Carol says.

It doesn’t really matter.

“Let’s see, what else….” Dr. Tachibana taps her chin in thought. “We should eat our meals together, unless you want to eat alone,” Miku adds, her smile diminishing, “then we can leave something out for you, though I would rather you interacted with us.”

It doesn’t matter.

“I think that’s everything, Miku,” Tachibana finally speaks up, grinning widely and almost vibrating with eagerness. “I’ll be right back with your stuff, Carol!” Tachibana rushes off to do just that, leaving her alone with Dr. Tachibana.

Light touches again skirt her shoulder as Miku leaves the bedroom—Carol’s bedroom.

“Settle in. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.” A pause, then, “Welcome home, Carol.”

Then she’s alone again.

She stares at everything in—in her bedroom. The furniture, the curtains, the walls painted sunshine yellow….

Her throat tightens.

As if any of this can replace what she used to have. As if life can give her people to be her _parents_ , when all she wants is her father. As if going to a real school, having meals with _two_ people who love each other…

Back then, whenever her Papa would make them move all over again, just when she barely managed to make friends… it’s true that she wished for something like _this_. Her own bedroom, not shared with Elfnein; a house where they would stay for longer than a few months; a proper school instead of scattered lessons….

Now she just wants Papa to come back.

“Where should I put your trunk?”

It doesn’t matter.

“Carol?” Tachibana crouches in front of her. “Are you crying?” Tachibana asks, a hand tentatively outstretched to her face.

“N-No,” she mutters and turns away.

She isn’t crying.

“Hey… may I give you a hug?”

Like _that_ will fix anything, she wants to scoff, but she finds herself nodding—nodding?—and leaning into a warm embrace.

Love is… strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Chuckles- I didn't expect anyone to reply yesterday, but thank you to all who did; I'll reply personally tomorrow. I will indeed show The Conversation in its entirety, but   
> not quite yet! I think things have been a bit too sad lately, heh....
> 
> Please review!


	13. 3M | Miku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's late and she wants to sleep, but.

### M

Miku Kohinata is neither the patient nor the motherly type.

That isn’t to say that she doesn’t try; it’s an uphill battle more often than not, but it’s a point of pride that she gives it her utmost effort.

She’s had plenty of practice due to Hibiki’s habit of going out of her way to help others—most recently, Hibiki’s “rescue” of one Carol Malus Dienheim, though it’s only the latest in a long history of misadventures.

Therefore, it takes quite a bit to fracture her mask of calm. A punch to the jaw, she can take. A stubborn insistence to eat alone, she can understand. An apparent predilection for sneaking out at night—not so much, not when Carol is only ten years old!

“Please explain why you were wandering around the front yard at midnight,” she asks a silent Carol. The annoyance that seeps into her voice is partly because this is the third time she’s asked and partly because Hibiki practically rewards Carol with a mug of hot chocolate.

Hibiki sends her a pleading expression that probably means ‘please go easy on her,’ because Hibiki’s too soft-hearted for this.

“Carol,” she says, rolling her eyes at Hibiki.

Carol shrugs again, _sullen_ written in her slumped shoulders and clenched fists and the way her chin touching her chest. The drink Hibiki offers her is also ignored, much to Hibiki’s disappointment.

They are getting nowhere, fast, at the rate they’re going.

Maybe this isn’t the best way to go about it. There needs to be a balance between discipline and comfort; she just has to find the appropriate one for Carol.

Firm, but soft….

“You aren’t in trouble,” she says at last into the uneasy silence. It’s enough to make Carol look at her; she’s squinting in suspicion, but it’s a start. “I promise you’re not going to be punished,” she elaborates. “I simply want to know _why_ you were outside instead of sleeping.”

Once she knows the reason behind this, she might be able to figure out what to do.

“I couldn’t sleep,” is Carol’s flat answer after careful appraisal, now staring defiantly at Miku.

“And?” she prompts; Carol shrugs once more.

She wants to tap her foot against the floor impatiently or drum her fingers against her arm; the seconds seem to eke by with acute malaise. Hibiki’s anxious rocking on her feet isn’t helping. Nevertheless, she finds it in herself to breathe normally, to remain still, to be—

Patient.

“I’m—” Hibiki pauses awkwardly under the weight of Carol’s and her stare—“I’m just… going to get some water,” she says and ducks out of the room.

They both take a moment to register Hibiki’s hasty escape. Then, Miku sighs, “Honestly, what am I going to do with her?”

Carol gives her a look that is entirely too derisive for a ten-year-old and is definitely worrisome. She’s not sure what to make of Carol’s passionate dislike of Hibiki, but that’s a problem for a different day; Hibiki is resilient (and persistent and way too lovable).

“I just,” Carol abruptly offers, her hands moving to grip her blankets, “… couldn’t sleep. So I went out to count stars. That’s what we used to do when we couldn’t sleep, back….” Carol frowns deeply. “Back in the countryside,” she grumbles.

Finally, an answer.

But now what will her own response be? She could be stern, forbid Carol from doing so again. She could be sympathetic yet firm in disciplining Carol. It’s not like she can be soft in this case, because the night holds many terrors.

Yet, if she takes this from Carol, it might lead to a greater gulf between them.

“Next time….” What is she saying?

Carol frowns, watching her warily. Ten years old and entirely too… cynical, perhaps.

“Next time,” she repeats with more assuredness, “please tell me or tell Hibiki so that we can go with you, okay? It’s less safe in the city, so I’d rather you wake us up than let you walk around alone.”

Something flashes in Carol’s expression, too quick to pin down; Carol nods in agreement, giving in surprisingly easily.

“Thank you,” she says to Carol—something flashes in her, as well.

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Hibiki cheerfully announces her presence, making Miku startle a bit.

“You took your time,” she mutters under her breath, to Hibiki’s sheepish shrug. “Good night, Carol,” she says, retreating from the room.

“Good night, Carol,” Hibiki echoes as she turns off the light in Carol’s bedroom. Before the door closes completely, they manage to hear Carol’s soft response:

“ _Gute Nacht_ ,” roughly something like that; she and Hibiki exchange soft smiles. It’s progress.

It reminds her, however, that she should look into some language aids, for both Carol and themselves. Things might be less awkward if she and Hibiki could communicate in German for Carol. That is, if it doesn’t serve as a painful reminder to Carol of what she has lost….

They settle back into bed—her on Hibiki’s right side, which still feels awkward—but she doesn’t turn off the bedside lamp immediately, even if it is half past midnight and she has an early morning shift tomorrow.

Later today, actually.

“Are you experimenting in New Age techniques?” Hibiki asks, rolling onto her right side, her bright eyes curious and her mouth half-smiling.

“Where did you hear of that?” she laughs and shakes her head, letting her thoughts settle.

“I overheard someone saying it at the hospital,” Hibiki shrugs, and adds, “I don’t think my mom or your dad would’ve allowed Carol to keep going out at night. My dad, maybe, but from him it wouldn’t have been a very good choice….”

Miku Kohinata isn’t the parenting type, she doesn’t know what she’s doing, she wants to tell Hibiki, but she says instead, “Something tells me Carol will respond better to unorthodox methods than the conventional ones. And _you_ will fill in the strict parent role—no more running away, sunshine.” She smirks at Hibiki’s flabbergasted expression and playfully reaches out to poke Hibiki’s nose.

“I can’t be the strict parent! Miku, I _break_ rules more often than not—uh, not on _purpose_ , of course not,” Hibiki nervously laughs, edging away from her.

“Silly,” she murmurs fondly, barely restraining a yawn now that the action is over. “Lie on your back so I can use you as a pillow without hurting your shoulder,” she demands, turning off the light.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hibiki teases and pulls her flush against her.

Maybe, she thinks just before she drifts back to sleep, it’s about thinking outside of the box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny, it's also about forty past midnight here. I can't believe it took me three days to write this... orz.
> 
> This is the halfway point! I have no idea what comes next; I'll think about it later.


	14. 3N | Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bully" is such a strong word.

### N

Nothing is as satisfying as bossing others around.

She knows, of course, that it’s not right. Papa used to often ask her to take Elfnein’s thoughts into account: “Why don’t you ask Elfnein what she wants to play, hm? It’s not fair if you always decide, Carol,” he’d say whenever she complained about Elfnein not wanting to play with her. But everything Elfnein suggested took place _indoors_ —chess, checkers, dominoes, card games, and the like—it was so _boring_!

Right now, however, Papa and Elfnein aren’t here to ruin her fun. While Tachibana takes an urgent call somewhere off to the side, Carol finds that she has ample freedom and opportunity to do as she pleases—namely, to disregard all of her father’s admonishments about being considerate of others.

Within seconds of her resolution, she spots a couple of little kids playing in the sand box. Upon wandering closer, she sees one of them playing with a toy train. It’s a dark blue color with golden wheels, cow-catcher, and whistle; there are even little windows along the side that are actually see-through.

Is it really a toy train? It looks like a miniature of the train they took once to Papa’s hometown in the mountains….

She wants it.

“What do you want?” the older one demands when she reaches them, frowning up at her while the boy—the one with the train—glances around nervously. Maybe it’s some type of sixth sense.

“I want that train.” From this close, she can see it’s made of wood and polished to shine. It’s not the type of toy you just play with in a dirty _sandbox_.

“No,” the older boy snaps. He stands up, saying, “It’s my little brother’s. You can’t have it.”

They’re about seven and five, maybe four, years old. Intimidating them shouldn’t be hard; the only problem is making sure neither Tachibana nor the kids’ parents notice, but a quick glance shows that no one’s paying attention to them.

“Too bad,” she says in response to defense, taking a step forward as menacingly as possible to the younger kid, who squeaks, tears gathering in his eyes so easily.

Nevertheless, the older one places himself between them and stands his ground despite her best glower and crossed arms at them.

“Need a hand?” an obnoxiously _posh_ voice asks behind her.

A spike of irritation flares through her at the interruption.

The moment she turns to confront the bothersome pest, the two boys make as if to escape; luckily, that supercilious voice sing-songs, “Not so fast!” and a rather tall girl with dark blue hair and a brooding scowl on her face blocks the boys’ way out.

Interesting, but she darts a look to Tachibana, who thankfully continues to be preoccupied with her phone call.

“I-it’s my brother’s toy!” the boy snaps despite his edging away from ‘Miss Brooding.’

“Hand over the train and we will let you go,” the original speaker says—a girl about her own age with hooded eyes and a menacing smirk, her arms innocently clasped behind her back.

Very interesting.

“L-Let’s just go, big brother,” the smaller one urges, but his brother snaps with renewed vigor: “No! It’s not fair!”

“Maybe you haven’t heard of us.” The upstart rich girl steps forwards to be level with Carol and declares, “ _I_ am Phara, and this is my cousin Leiur,” which means nothing to Carol but evidently makes the two boys even more nervous.

Still, the older one stands his ground, blustering, “I don’t care who you are! You’re just bullies!”

This is proving to be more troublesome than it might be worth; by herself, she would’ve just resorted to maybe pushing the kids around a little bit—Elfnein, after all, often required some jostling to be persuaded—but she finds herself interested in seeing this play out.

“Oh? Then I suppose Leiur will have to… _convince_ you,” Phara smirks and gestures to an uncertain Leiur, who now squirms at the terrified looks that the boys send her.

It’s looks like Leiur isn’t the “brawn” to Phara’s “brain,” but Leiur apparently swallows her hesitation and raises one hand to shove the younger boy—just a little bit, barely making contact with her fingertips.

Just that is enough to make the kid burst into tears and willingly hand over his toy to Leiur, much to the distress of his older brother, who exclaims, “Bully! Give that back! It’s not yours!” He goes so far as to lunge at Leiur.

Leiur responds with a stronger shove, enough force in it that the older boy ends up sprawled on the ground.

“Thank you for cooperating,” Phara tells them, sweet and vicious. “If anyone asks,” she adds, “you lost your toy at the park and couldn’t find it, okay?”

“O-okay,” the younger one answers, one pudgy hand wiping his tear-streaked cheeks and the other tugging on his brother’s sleeve. The older one has the good sense to relocate them to the swings, thus bringing the whole confrontation to an end.

Not, however, to Carol’s satisfaction: Leiur holds the train in her hands.

She turns to Phara, then, to ask, “What do you want?”

“Nothing much at this point,” Phara shrugs, though her eyes have a calculating look to them, akin to… a hawk circling above a rabbit, like that time Papa took them to some hunting grounds.

Well, _she_ definitely doesn’t want to be eaten.

“Let us introduce ourselves properly,” Phara says, and Leiur walks closer to stand just behind Phara. “I am Miss Phara Suyuf,” she says in an awfully haughty voice.

“I am Leiur Darahim,” Leiur murmurs, bowing her head so that her hair obscures her eyes.

Germanic names, the both of them. What a coincidence.

Deciding that introducing herself can’t hurt, she replies, “Carol Malus Dienheim.”

“Do you go to school nearby? We haven’t seen you around before,” Phara asks.

“No,” is her terse answer, but Phara nods for her to continue. Reluctantly, she explains, “I just… moved here. My… guardians… haven’t settled on which school I’m to attend.”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she wonders why she told them anything.

Tachibana appears before the conversation can continue— _finally_.

“You’ve made some friends!” Tachibana beams, clapping her hands.

Carol squints at Phara and Leiur; she wouldn’t call them _friends_. She just barely met them five minutes ago and she knows for certain that they aren’t the friendly sort—well, Phara isn’t. The judge and jury are still out on Leiur.

“Hello,” Phara smiles up at Tachibana, innocent as can be and not correcting the notion. “I’m Phara, and this is my cousin Leiur.” Leiur gives a halfhearted shrug, her hands fiddling with the toy train.

“It’s nice to meet you, Phara and Leiur. I’m Carol’s guardian, Hibiki Tachibana,” Tachibana replies. “I’m afraid we have to go, but I hope we see you around sometime!”

“Of course, Mrs. Tachibana.” Nodding at Leiur, Phara suggests, “Leiur goes to Matsuoka Elementary—perhaps she will see you there when you resume classes, Carol?”

“Maybe.” She shrugs noncommittally, squinting suspiciously at Phara; the only response she gets in return is a grin that actually looks honest.

Weird.

“Never say never!” is Tachibana’s interjection just before they leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about this chapter for a couple of days. I'm finding that it's difficult to write Carol, thus the delay.
> 
> Heh, actually, I was originally gone because I stumbled upon a certain HP fic that really pulled me in; I spent quite a bit of time on that until a particular plot twist completely put me off finishing the story. Anyway, I'll try not to read longfics anymore, lol.
> 
> A couple of guests left reviews on "Counting Stars," to my delighted surprise. Unfortunately, there's no way for me to reply to them. Oh, well....
> 
> Please review!


	15. 3O | Hibiki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adequate or not, she's doing her best!

### O

“—or _you_ could go instead!”

Miku pins her with an unimpressed look through the mirror.

“Please?” She makes her best puppy eyes, but no dice, so she switches tracks. “You know I suck at this type of stuff!” she appeals to Miku’s logical side. “I’m bound to mess it up somehow, without even trying!”

“You will with _that_ attitude,” Miku scolds her, glancing over her shoulder as she fixes the collar on her office shirt. “You missed a button, dear.”

“Eh?” She squints down at her shirt. In her defense, buttons are really hard to manage when one of your arms has limited movement.

She should probably stick to polos and t-shirts….

Miku nudges her hands away to re-button the shirt herself, saying, “No polos,” as if she read Hibiki’s mind (which she probably did, honestly). “You have to look presentable while you’re out scouting schools for Carol, Hibiki.”

“But why _me_?” she whines, sulking but staying still to let Miku smooth out her shirt for her.

“One,” Miku bops her nose, “I’m not a single parent. Two,” another nose-bop, “you are supposed to be a _responsible_ adult. Remember what you promised me?” Ouch—Miku has a point with that one. A third nose-bop and, “Three, I have to go to work today.”

All very good points, she concedes. Logic, however, doesn’t do much to quell the nervous fluttering of her heart.

“I’m scared,” she confesses, because they’d resolved that there wouldn’t be any more silence between them, and this fear of hers—Miku deserves to know, _needs_ to know.

“Scared?” Miku prompts, her hands settling lightly on Hibiki’s shoulders.

Nodding, she elaborates, “Of messing up. Of… of hurting Carol through my incompetence.” Her mouth twists, uncertain, reluctant to offer more. “Like my dad hurt me and my mom,” she whispers, once again a teenager in a crumbling home.

Part of her thinks it’s too late for regrets; their argument at the park comes to mind, and she guiltily remembers Miku’s accusation of her disregarding the consequences of her actions. Really, what was she thinking, taking a ten-year-old kid in?

Willful ignorance. She hadn’t been thinking anything. She had seen Carol, had recognized something of herself in those blue eyes, and _acted_.

“Don’t,” Miku tells her, fingertips now running softly against her tense jaw. “You and Carol will be fine; it’s just like the past five schools we visited. You’ll meet with Principal Fukube, take a tour of the school, ask the questions I wrote down, see if Carol has anything to contribute, and that’s it. Simple, okay?”

Simple.

Right.

It’s _only_ the most terrifying thing she’s ever done in her entire life! Totally simple.

Miku goes back to getting ready; a glance at the clock tells her that it’s almost time for Miku to head off to the hospital.

Then, it occurs to her to ask about—“Carol. Does she know it’s just going to be me and her today?”

“I told her this morning,” Miku absentmindedly replies, gathering her hair into a low ponytail and tying a bow around it.

“And?” Carol had been her usual taciturn self at breakfast, she thinks, but that doesn’t mean Carol won’t throw a tantrum later, once Miku goes to work. “Is she okay with it?”

“Oh, she’s not,” Miku grins, “but I told her that if she’s on her best behavior with you, I’ll take her out for ice cream, just the two of us.”

Her mind latches onto the last part. She mutters, “ _I_ want ice cream….” Not that she’d say it out loud, but she’s _tired_ of the heavy-fruits-and-vegetables regime she’s been forced to endure since she got back.

“If your cholesterol levels are back to normal at your next check-up,” Miku says with a stern look, “then _maybe_ we’ll go.”

She sighs. That pesky little detail of her health….

Pouting, she trails after Miku, lurking behind her as Miku knocks on Carol’s bedroom door.

“You’re leaving already?” is Carol’s immediate question upon answering.

Such obvious disappointment from Carol would make Hibiki jealous (she can barely get a word out of Carol, never mind a _smile_ or anything like that), but it’s honestly a good thing that Carol is receptive to Miku; otherwise, they would all be in a world of trouble.

“… Hibiki?”

“Huh? Sorry, what was that?” she blinks, refocusing on the conversation happening in front of her.

With an exasperated huff, Miku repeats, “You’ll both be on your best behavior, right, Hibiki? No straining your shoulder, no ‘harmless’ detours, no saving cats from trees, no—”

“Ahhhh, yes, I mean no—none of that,” she hastens to promise as Carol snickers at her plight. “Best behavior, scout’s honor.”

“You aren’t even a scout,” Miku mutters under her breath, but Hibiki pretends not to hear.

Both she and Carol walk Miku to the door, where Miku gives Carol a pat on the shoulder and Hibiki a quick kiss on the lips, murmuring, “I love you,” before getting into her car. One last wave, then Miku is headed down the street.

“So….” She rocks back and forth on her feet, glancing uncertainly at Carol out of the corner of her eye. Carol crosses her arms; the scowl on her expression is distinctly more sardonic than a ten-year-old’s should be.

“I want bratwurst for lunch,” Carol informs her, then promptly disappears into her bedroom.

“O-kay….”

[***]

“—options! We have the astronomy club, the home economics club, a chess club, a badminton club, a pentathlon team, and many others!”

Maybe it’s just her, but elementary school seems a lot more complicated now than when she was a student herself. Just _listening_ to everything on offer is making her tired, which is saying a lot because she works for the military, for goodness’ sake!

But, as a sidelong glance shows, Carol is very much invested in her education: she nods at the various points Principal Fukube makes, asks questions to clarify or elaborate, and eagerly tracks every inch of the campus.

At that age, Hibiki hadn’t had nearly the same amount of self-awareness as Carol does.

“It’s all optional, though, isn’t it?” she interjects, frowning slightly.

“Not at all,” Principal Fukube replies. “We also have the ‘going home’ club,” he chuckles.

“Good,” she nods, entirely serious despite the reproving glare Carol sends her. “I don’t want Carol to be overworked; kids are supposed to have fun, you know.”

Principal Fukube dips his head in acknowledgement, his heretofore cheerful demeanor melding into one of understanding—perhaps more grave than Hibiki had originally intended. “Of course,” he says. “Our intention, here at Matsuoka, is not to place undue pressure on our students, but rather to foster their individual interests in such a way that they _enjoy_ themselves, first and foremost.”

They come to a stop, just outside the library doors.

“Many would say otherwise, but I believe it is simple _enjoyment_ that gives the first encouragement to children to pursue their dreams.”

“G-good,” she nods weakly; she wishes Miku were here, to say something more meaningful in response. Miku would’ve known what to say. Miku wouldn’t have let an awkward silence fall on them.

Her cheeks feel awfully hot under Principal Fukube’s pensive regard.

Carol shuffles closer to her, a hand coming to grip the edge of Hibiki’s shirt, and says, “Can we look at the library?”

“Of course!” Principal Fukube grins—he easily regains his air of joviality. Ushering them forward, he picks up his chatter once again, explaining, “Our library here is one of the best in the region, if I do say so myself! We have had many donations from alums over the ….”

She blinks when Carol tugs at her shirt. Carol scowls up at her, but there’s a plea for reassurance in the downward pull of her mouth.

That’s right.

“Let’s go,” she murmurs, her right hand settling on Carol’s shoulder for as long as Carol lets it stay there.

Overcast skies aren’t going to get her down!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I had the first six chapters and the last one written beforehand, but everything in between was... not thought out. So, uh, that's why I've been taking so long to update; I've been trying to figure out the best way to get from point A to B. 
> 
> Ideas, suggestions, questions would be most welcome!
> 
> It surprises me that "Counting Stars" is still gathering interest here on AO3 - granted, no one ever leaves me a review, but it's still nice to see.
> 
> Please review ^^


	16. 3P | Miku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some thoughts on family.

### P

 _Parenting is… unexpectedly fun_.

At least, that’s what comes to mind when she finds a willing cooking assistant in Carol, when she listens to Carol list off endless constellations and star names, or whenever she comes home t0 find Hibiki and Carol watching cartoons together, in peace.

“No!” A door slams and heavy stomps echo throughout the house.

She winces, partially hiding her face behind the medical journal she was reading; parenting is _not_ so fun when it comes to putting up with tantrums, hurt feelings, or hyperactivity—though, admittedly and thankfully, the last is currently not much of a problem in their nascent household.

Although she likes to think of herself as having been a calm child, part of her wonders if her own parents ever felt up to their ears in uncertainty.

Hibiki trudges into the living room and plops down onto the sofa beside her with a world-weary sigh, her right hand rubbing at her wounded shoulder, absent-mindedly from the pensive look on her face.

Putting down the medical journal, she ventures, “Should I do damage control? I know we talked about not upstaging each other’s authority, but I, um—” Her tongue trips over the words, just like it did when their relationship had been naught but an epiphany.

 _I don’t like to see you upset_.

“No, it’s okay,” Hibiki grimaces, and her fingers tighten over her shoulder.

Old habits are hard to break—for the both of them. She knows Hibiki doesn’t like being vulnerable, yet Hibiki has repeatedly been so since their conversation at the park last week…

Hibiki is brave and willing enough to confide in her, so—

It’s only fair that she reciprocate Hibiki’s trust.

That’s the _point_.

Sighing heavily, Hibiki sinks further back into the cushions, expression becoming progressively sterner as Hibiki wallows in her thoughts.

She can do this, can’t she?

Miku Kohinata is stronger than _this_. If she was able to accept Hibiki back when they were teenagers, then it shouldn’t be any more difficult now!

Her thoughts are momentarily distracted when Hibiki starts pressing her fingers against her wounded shoulder.

“Careful,” she scolds lightly, at which Hibiki blinks questioningly. She glances at her watch, stands, and says, “It’s time to take your pain medication, Hibiki.” It’s not quite what she wants to say, but it’s a start.

Hibiki pulls a face at the reminder.

“You’ll be in more pain if you don’t take the medication as prescribed, Hibiki.”

“I’m not in pain!” Hibiki denies adamantly with a wide smile—not that it fools Miku, who is trained to spot even the slightest nuances of pain.

Physical pain, she corrects herself as she grabs a glass of water from the kitchen and Hibiki’s pills from atop the fridge. Emotional pain is an entirely different matter (much to her current consternation).

Returning with the items in hand, she says, “Unless you want to be stuck on paid leave forever—” which would honestly be a blessing—“I suggest you take your medication now, Hibiki. You’ll feel a lot better afterwards, too.”

It’s the threat of being confined to the sidelines that convinces Hibiki to sit up and take the pain killers, though it’s not enough to dispel the wounded-puppy pout.

Figures. But, well, that’s who Hibiki is.

She tucks herself into Hibiki’s right side, pulling Hibiki’s arm around her and laughing lightly when Hibiki takes the opportunity to skim her fingers along Miku’s ticklish side.

“Hibiki,” she murmurs upon regaining her breath. Her voice sounds more worried than she’d intended.

“Yeah?” Hibiki rests her head on Miku’s shoulder.

“About Carol,” she says, picking up their previous conversation from where they left off, “are you sure you don’t want me to talk to her? I….” Again, she hesitates, but she pushes past that reluctance to admit, “I… don’t like to see you so upset.”

“Miku,” Hibiki whispers, pulling her closer.

They breathe in companionable silence for a while, absorbing the words said and not said aloud. It’s… peaceful, for a change. The silence isn’t charged with tension, with anger, with frustration; it’s tentative as they each search for “proper” responses, that unshakeable habit, but it’s not fragile.

She smiles.

Like this, Hibiki’s body warm and solid beside her, it’s easier to believe in hope—not the naïve hope of the blind, but _genuine_ , almost _tangible_ hope. As if it really is as easy as _believing_.

Perspective—it’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it?

“Giving up isn’t an option,” Hibiki affirms suddenly, hand tight on Miku’s waist and tone giving away that this isn’t entirely about Carol.

“What about a tactical retreat?” she offers, because perspective and semantics go hand-in-hand.

“No—well, maybe right _now_ , yeah,” Hibiki concedes, “but I don’t want to throw in the towel so soon. Carol deserves more.”

Their eyes meet.

So it is.

If it were anyone else, she might (privately) accuse them of being self-centered, of wanting to think more of _themselves_. She’s been with Hibiki long enough, however, to know better—this is truly who Hibiki is.

“Okay, then. I trust you.”

Hibiki grins, “Thanks, Miku.”

Silence is about to fall on them once again, but it’s interrupted by the pitter-patter of small feet running down the hall.

For a brief, bizarre moment, she thinks she’s in one of her dreams: little feet running around the house, Hibiki at home with her instead of perpetually absent, lazy afternoons spent together, light-hearted giggles erasing the rest of her loneliness.

Blue eyes peer down at Hibiki, roiling with uncertainty like a splash of cold water.

“Hey, kiddo,” Hibiki says, pulling away from Miku to create a space between them. “Want to join us? I was just about to put on some cartoons,” she says and pats the open space, then stage whispers, “Miku’s secretly a big fan of Pokémon.”

Miku can’t help the indignant huff that escapes her; Carol’s frown twitches into a brief smile at that, which in turn makes Hibiki beam, utterly delighted at the reaction, but still Carol remains hovering a few steps in front of them, hands fidgeting with her pajama pants.

“I installed German subtitles this morning, so you can compare between the Japanese and the German,” she cajoles—Carol has her own type of pride, after all.

“Fine,” Carol mutters. The relaxing of her shoulders and the eagerness with which she clambers between them, however, belie Carol’s eagerness.

“You’ve got great timing, Carol,” Hibiki chatters as she turns on the T.V. “Have you watched Pokémon before? They’ve been airing a rerun on Sunday afternoons. I think we’re on that episode with Sabrina today—do you mind a little scary stuff?”

Carol shakes her head, though she eases against Miku a little more.

Smiling, Miku drapes her arm on the back of the couch, just barely touching Carol’s shoulders; Carol glances up at her quickly before interrupting Hibiki’s babble with a question.

Perhaps it’s not such an unattainable dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the extended delay; for the past week my dominant shoulder and hand have been hurting a lot, making it difficult to hold a pen (and forks and spoons and cups >_


	17. 3Q | Hibiki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol looks positively adorable in her little uniform -- an almost oversized blue bowtie, a crisp white shirt, a plaid blue skirt held up by suspenders, a neat navy blazer, and a navy beret perched on golden hair make Carol look like a doll.
> 
> But don't call Carol "adorable" to her face.

### Q

Quaffing down her second cup of coffee doesn’t really help with suppressing the nervousness that bubbles in her chest, but at least Miku’s fleeting touches to the back of her neck as she moves around the kitchen help some.

It’s fine, she tells herself. She’s not even the one going to school.

Well—that’s the problem, isn’t it? If she were the one going to school, she wouldn’t be anxious, not like this. But this is _Carol’s_ first day, and it will be _Carol_ who will have to make new friends, stay on the teachers’ good sides, go through the awkwardness of transferring in the middle of the school year, and all that.

She takes another gulp of coffee, wishing she could swallow down her worries with it.

Unfortunately, she finds her hands have drifted to fiddling with a napkin, tearing little pieces off. Her knee is jittering in response to the spike of caffeine and nerves.

On the other hand, Carol is absent-mindedly eating cereal as she reads a book on the different species of butterflies found in Japan, apparently not worried _at all_ about her first day of school.

It’s not fair, she grumbles to herself. It’s probably a good thing, though; if Carol

“Hibiki, what are you doing?” Miku asks, giving her a half-questioning, half-exasperated look upon turning around to set a plate of omelets on the table.

“Um,” her right hand stuffs the torn up napkin into the pocket of her pajama shorts, “just… thinking about… stuff, y’know…?” She grins sheepishly at Miku’s eye roll.

“Don’t be such a worrywart,” Miku lightly scolds, taking a seat beside her. “Carol will be fine, and so will you. Right, Carol?”

Without looking up from her book, Carol murmurs, “Mhm.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” she pouts and pours more cheese over her omelet.

“Carol,” Miku says loudly, at which Hibiki pouts further, “I know you have your pass card, but if Hibiki is late to pick you up, you’ll stay with a teacher or in the front office, okay?”

“Not that I’ll be late,” she hastily adds. Her heart seems to skip a beat at the very thought of being late—or, even worse, _forgetting_ to pick up Carol!

Quelling her nervousness is really difficult when so many what-ifs keep popping up.

“You’ll be fine, both of you.” Miku pats her hand, giving her a sad smile that leaves her puzzled. Before she can ask, however, Miku turns to Carol and says, “When you are finished with breakfast and brushing your teeth, I’ll help you put on your uniform, okay?”

At that, Carol looks up with a sharp glint in her blue eyes, protesting, “I don’t need help. I’m not a little kid!”

“Everyone needs help every now and then,” Hibiki tries to placate Carol. “It’s just, you know, the ribbon hard to tie the first time. Miku still has to help me out, sometimes.” She laughs, trying to keep it light-hearted and casual, since a tantrum right now wouldn’t at all be ideal.

“I’m not like you,” Carol flatly refutes.

She quashes the urge to snap back—she’s the adult here and Carol’s only trying to get a reaction out of her. Arguing would get them nowhere; it’d end up leading to a tantrum, honestly.

But she prickles at the veiled insult nevertheless. She isn’t _that_ bad a role model… right?

Luckily, Miku steps in with her no-nonsense tone, “Quite right, you are not Hibiki. However, Carol, most schools here have a strict dress code. I think it would be prudent to let me help you dress yourself until you get the hang of it, okay?”

Carol frowns deeply, but the wind leaves her sails and she nods reluctantly (mercifully).

That settled, they eat silently; Miku disappears behind her newspaper and Carol’s attention quickly goes back to her book.

Generally, she doesn’t mind quiet mornings, but today… a ball of anxiety in her chest refuses to leave her alone now that there are no distractions, making her too queasy to eat.

What if the other kids make fun of Carol’s accent?

What if Carol falls behind because she still has trouble reading kanji?

What if—what if Carol—

“Relax, Hibiki,” a warm voice murmurs. “You’re going to bend your fork in half if you keep gripping it so tightly.” Again, Miku’s hand settles over her own. “Take deep breaths….”

She does as instructed, breathing in deeply, holding it for a few moments, and releasing it to start anew. In. Out. In. Out. Her pulse slows down, her eyes open, and her muscles relax—she hadn’t even realized she was so tense.

She laughs, low and sheepish, but Miku shakes her head, softly admonishing, “Don’t feel guilty. Your emotions are important, too, Hibiki.”

“’kay,” she mumbles. It’s too early to argue; her thoughts are too vague to put together into something coherent. It’s easier to just give in, allow Miku to comfort her.

“I’m going to get dressed,” Carol announces, standing up and leaving her bowl in the sink.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Miku assures her.

Carol lingers in the doorway, back facing them. Then, she says, “I’m not scared. You shouldn’t be, either. _Dummkopf_.”

Idiot, Carol says, but in a curiously soft voice that’s devoid of scorn.

[***]

“Quit it,” Carol snaps, making a face as she pulls away from Hibiki’s bone-crushing hug. “You’re going to get tears on my sweater and strain your shoulder.” But her scowl can’t conceal the blush that creeps up her face.

“I’m j-just so _proud_ of you!” she wails as she allows Miku to pull her back from Carol. She accepts the handkerchief Miku gives her, still burbling, “Kids grow up s-so fast!”

“People are staring,” Carol mutters—there’s genuine discomfort in Carol’s hunched shoulders and tucked-in chin; it prompts her to take a step back.

Taking a deep breath (and swiping the handkerchief over her eyes to see Carol properly), she says in a more level voice, “Carol, I’m really, _really_ proud of you. No matter what.”

She’s not sure what compels her to add that second part. It sounds… ominous, like—

“As long as you do your best,” is all Miku’s low voice says, also unexpectedly solemn.

“Students, to the teachers!”

Carol looks decidedly tiny, gripping her backpack’s shoulder straps in tight fists and tilting her chin upwards now to stare at them. Her hat nearly falls off, so Miku adjusts it for Carol.

Hibiki kind of—inexplicably—wants to take Carol and flee.

“Bye,” Carol says, turns around, and walks determinedly to her home room teacher (Mrs. Something-or-Other).

“Go get ‘em!” she shouts after Carol, unable to resist, and Carol tosses one last scoff over her shoulder before getting in line with her class. She also can’t help the tears that well up in her eyes again.

Miku’s hand slips into hers, directing them to the parents’ seating area at the back of the auditorium. Having blinked her tears away, she can see the way some parents look at them, openly curious—as curious about them as the kids are about Carol, she bets.

Her uninjured arm is held in Miku’s grasp, so she can’t wave, but she sports her best smile, and a few even smile back! She dreads the upcoming parent-teacher club (she doesn’t quite remember what it’s called, having not payed attention when Miku had explained it) meeting a little less.

They snag a couple of seats in the third row, off to the left side; it doesn’t give the _best_ view, but it doesn’t matter since the students, including Carol, are sitting up front. This entrance ceremony is just a formality, nothing like the start-of-the-year entrance ceremonies she vaguely remembers from her childhood.

As such, she mostly tunes out Principal Fukube’s address to the students and parents. Instead, she lets her gaze rove over the heads of the students—maybe she’ll catch a flash of blonde hair, though it’s unlikely given Carol’s short stature.

Miku nudges her side, drawing her attention back to the front where Fukube’s bowing.

That went by quickly, she muses.

She joins in the applause, belatedly, and barely hears Miku’s quip, “I see you still have a habit of daydreaming in class, Hibiki.”

“You know me,” she shrugs with a carefree smile that falters a little as the students march out of the auditorium. Somewhere, amongst the sea of blue uniforms, Carol is walking toward her first day of class….

Once again, Miku takes the lead; they don’t stop to chat with the other parents milling around them. There’ll be time for that later, when Miku isn’t in a hurry to go to work.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off at home?” Miku asks when they reach the car.

“I’m sure,” she reiterates. “It’s a nice day for a walk.” She gestures to all the greenery around them.

Miku stares at her for a few moments, frowning slightly. There will be questions later (a pop quiz), she knows, about her behavior, but they both know that Hibiki has to try to work through it herself.

“Don’t forget to take your medicine,” Miku reminds her, adding sternly, “no skipping!”

“Yes, ma’am,” she grumbles. A quick kiss, however, is enough to make her smile again.

“I’ll see you later.” Miku hesitates, fidgeting with her car keys, then murmurs, “I love you.”

That’s right, she realizes, mood sinking once again. “I love you, too,” she answers, more firmly and confidently to drive away Miku’s hesitation.

A wide smile, a wave, and then Miku is gone.

Well, then. Now what is there to do?

She stares up at the cloudless sky, squinting away from the sun’s brightness. With both Miku and Carol busy, it’s just herself. Chris is back with Kirika and Shirabe, in Norway as of last night. She would go visit Tsubasa and Maria at headquarters, but…

There’s a certain hollowness in her chest. She suspects she won’t be very good company.

It’s been a while, she decides, since she last saw the commander.

Quietly, she mumbles, “Maybe I will visit headquarters after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly longer chapter!
> 
> I still stumble over the Japanese school system and with keeping track of timelines established way back in "Counting Stars"; all inconsistencies should be overlooked (unless you want to point them out and maybe help me fix them).
> 
> Honestly I meant to have this finished by the beginning of August, yet it's almost September now -- having a plan for the rest of the story has been surprisingly unhelpful. The new goal is to finish it before I go back to school on September 22.
> 
> Please review!


	18. 3R | Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a jumbled mess in her head as she tries to gloss over the details.

### R

Retrospect, hindsight—well, it’s too late for that.

“Teacher!” the boy in front of her wails, and if half of the school yard wasn’t watching them already, they definitely are now. “She pushed me!” He staggers to his feet, face an ugly red and scraggly blue hair flopping over his eyes, mouth pulled into an exaggerated snarl. There’s dirt on his sweater.

Her heart stutters in her chest. She isn’t scared of him, or of the teachers—his stupid face just makes her want to push him down again—but she remembers Papa’s disappointed frown whenever the local parents would complain to him about her behavior.

And what about—

Mrs. Ibara marches up to them, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Mister Matou, Miss Malus Dienheim, come with me. The rest of you,” Mrs. Ibara turns to the kids crowded around them, “back to playing! There are ten minutes left of recess.”

As the other teacher on recess duty comes to disperse the crowd, Mrs. Ibara leads them back inside, to the classroom. Matou flashes a smirk at her, behind the teacher’s back, confident that she’ll be the only one to get in trouble.

In retrospect, she knows she shouldn’t have pushed him. Papa was always telling her to think before letting her anger get the best of her, because getting angry made things worse, not better.

Regret, and shame. That’s what she feels right now, standing bowed in front of Mrs. Ibara’s desk. It makes her stomach churn and her hands tighten into fists—that’s the shame part of it.

Her teeth clench.

It’s too late to feel sorry.

“Miss Malus Dienheim, can you tell me what happened?”

“She pushed me!” Matou cuts in, taking a step forward.

But Mrs. Ibara looks at him disapprovingly, asking, “Is your name Miss Malus Dienheim?”

That must be a rhetorical question, because Matou flushes red again and looks away without answering. At least he respects the teacher.

“Please tell the what happened, Miss Malus Dienheim, and do _not_ interrupt, Mister Matou.”

[***]

Rowdy.

That was the first word that came to mind as she stood at the edge of the grass, watching the others—her classmates—run around the fields.

Shouts rung in her ears, words flowed too quickly to follow, movement bloomed everywhere she looked, and the sun pressed down on her head on this awfully bright day.

Recess.

It was a lot like the summer days in the countryside—not that it mattered. It didn’t. She was merely drawing a parallel, an unimportant and irrelevant one.

She wished she had thought of bringing a book to pass away the time, but it hadn’t occurred to her in time. That was why she was standing there without doing anything; she didn’t want to approach anyone because they spoke more quickly than she could understand, and it was hot.

Then she had spotted an undisturbed tree, a little off to the side. She made it halfway there before someone cut in front of her and forced her to stop.

“I haven’t seen you around,” the boy said, arms crossed and feet planted firmly on the ground.

“I’m—”

“—Is your hair really blonde? Are you a foreigner?” He stepped closer.

Because he’d interrupted her already, she didn’t want to say anything more, but she felt it would be a… bad idea to ignore him.

“I’m German,” she replied. “I—”

“—You talk funny,” he smirked and took a step closer to her, adding, “I’ve met a couple of Germans ‘round here, actually. Guess you’d be right at home with ‘em, huh?”

Realizing that he wanted something other than small talk from her, she probed warily, “You… know a lot of people…?” A feeling of unease shuddered down her spine when the boy took _another_ step closer to her, not answering her question, now within arm’s reach. “What are you—”

“—‘Course I know a lot of people! My grandfather’s on the city council. You should know that,” the boy scolded. “But since you’re… _new_ ,” he sneered, “I’ll introduce myself. Shinji Matou, grandson of councilman Zouken Matou.”

His approach made sense, then. He was like some village kids she’d encountered before, full of themselves and hiding behind their parents’ _important_ titles. It looked like nonsensical pride was something that existed regardless of country or populace.

“Well?” Matou demanded when she gave no reaction other than to stare blankly at him.

“That’s…,” she didn’t want to say ‘impressive’ or anything like that to stroke his ego, so she settled on, “nice.”

Reddening, Matou echoed, “‘Nice’?” His fists clenched, so she took a few steps back but he followed after her, glowering.

It frustrated her that he was so dense and that she had let him corner her.

[***]

Rushing through the last part, she says, “Then I pushed him, he started shouting, and Mrs. Ibara took us to the classroom, and that’s why I have detention. He has detention, too, so….”

She holds her breath as Miku and Tachibana exchange glances, hoping they don’t prod further.

Part of her starts to get annoyed, however, at this second instance of fear.

It’s not like she _cares_ about what they think about her; she doesn’t care if they’re disappointed in her or not—they’re not her parents. Only her father has any right to be mad at her, and he’s—

He’s gone.

But does that excuse your behavior? Papa’s voice seems to reverberate in her mind, like it used to whenever he’d hold Socratic lessons with her and Elfnein.

It doesn’t matter. It _doesn’t_ —

“—Carol?”

“What?” she blinks at Miku, whose expression hasn’t changed from its initial mild curiosity. Somehow, she notes, that expression makes her palms sweat even further; there’s a relentless desire to know what Miku is thinking, to know where she stands.

Repeating the question, “Did Mrs. Ibara explain why she gave you both detention?” Miku unknowingly echoes Papa’s old form of teaching.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Inexplicably, the parallel she accidently drew between her papa and Miku sparks the anger that had been churning quietly in her chest.

“But, Carol,” Tachibana tries to explain, but Carol pivots on her heel to flee the living room. “Carol!”

She bypasses her bedroom in favor of running out to the backyard; she rubs tears away, blinking rapidly, and has climbed to the tree’s mid-level branch by the time Miku catches up with her.

One part of her wishes she’d been left alone but another part wants to cry, to find comfort in Miku’s understanding presence.

It’s confusing.

Anxiety crawls up her arms. She shivers, pressing closer to the tree’s bark.

Miku leans against the tree trunk, not looking at her but facing the back door instead, where Tachibana is probably watching them.

Uncertainty roils in her stomach.

It’d started out as such a _nice_ day—the first day at a _proper_ school, and Miku had helped her get dressed, and Tachibana had cried when they saw her off, and—

She can’t figure out how it went _wrong_ so quickly.

Well.

Real regret flushes through her, uncomfortably warm and suffocating. She’d gotten angry, and she made the mistake of acting on it instead of leaving well enough alone. It’s the same story as back then: she loses her temper, she pushes people around (literally, in this case), and then afterwards she feels bad about it even though it’s too late.

_Why can’t you be more like Elfnein?_

Her fists clench and her teeth grit.

Rescuing her from her thoughts, Miku finally says, “It’s okay, Carol. We can help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came out a lot more quickly than I expected, wow.


	19. 3S | Miku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She curses her indecisive mind.

### S

Staring up at the bright blue sky as she waits for Carol, she can’t help but think: _We’re in too deep_.

Is that how it is, however?

Where do they draw the line between being a child’s _guardians_ and being their _parents_? Does such a line even exist? _Should_ that line exist?

Does it matter?

Leaves rustle as Carol begins to climb down from the tree. There’s a scowl firmly in place on Carol’s face when she jumps down the last foot.

No, she decides. It doesn’t matter.

So long as they’re doing everything they can to raise Carol into a well-adjusted—and happy—adult, it doesn’t matter what she and Hibiki are to Carol.

The sullen expression on Carol’s face, however, reminds her that it isn’t an easy task.

She had hoped there wouldn’t be any problems on Carol’s first day of school, but she isn’t surprised to find that hope dashed, especially given how familiar she already is with Carol’s short temper.

Carol pauses beside her, fidgeting with the cuff of her school sweater and stubbornly keeping her gaze on the ground; her short hair, however, can’t hide the red flush of her cheeks.

What is Carol feeling right now? Anger? Frustration? Embarrassment?

The most straightforward way to find out is, of course, simply _asking_. And if Carol were an adult, capable of perfectly reasonable conversations—she rolls her eyes, briefly thinking of herself and Hibiki—then she would indeed ask Carol. Unfortunately, Carol is only ten years old and has difficulty not veering into temper tantrums, so….

“Hibiki and I,” she starts, but Carol’s distrustful glance makes her stumble. What should she say? Truth be told, she isn’t even sure what had upset Carol in the first place. “Do you want to help me make dinner?” she ends up asking instead.

Carol shrugs but moves toward the house, not waiting for her.

Her jaw twitches, mildly irritated—with the situation, that is—as she follows Carol. While Carol goes straight to the kitchen, Miku takes a detour into the living room, where she finds Hibiki anxiously pacing.

“Is she really mad?” Hibiki demands upon catching sight of her.

A helpless shrug is her only answer.

“Oh.” Hibiki sinks into the closest armchair, and she perches on one of its arms.

“We’re going to make dinner,” she explains, carding her fingers through Hibiki’s hair.

“Mmm,” Hibiki sighs. Uncertain. Her head dips toward Miku’s hand. “I’ll stay here.”

They breathe in tandem for a moment, but she can’t relax: Carol is waiting for her, probably sulking, possibly making a mess in the kitchen.

So she leaves Hibiki in the living room and squares her shoulders to—to do what, exactly? Her feet unwittingly stop in kitchen doorway as she watches Carol, who hasn’t yet noticed her.

Kicking her legs as she waits (her feet barely graze the floor) and glowering at the refrigerator with her arms crossed, Carol paints quite the picture of a petulant, recalcitrant child. One, perhaps, included to throw tantrums at the drop of a hat.

Focus, Miku, she steels herself. Now is not the time to falter.

Not when someone _needs_ her.

“Let’s see what we can find in the cookbook, yes?” She strides into the kitchen, straight to the counter, without letting her steps falter at Carol’s wary gaze. Nevertheless, she cannot help the thrum of fear that leaves her at a loss.

“’kay,” Carol shrugs.

They both settle into their usual positions at the countertop: Carol on a stool for added height, and Miku reclining far enough away to give Carol space but close enough to read the print on the cookbook.

As Carol flips through the pages, irritation bleeding through her quick fingers, Miku lets her thoughts drift once again to the problem at hand.

Should she attempt to connect with Carol through an anecdote of her own temperament? Or would it be better to begin with a reassurance that she is not angry, a heretofore reliable tactic?

What can she say that will not upset Carol further? _Is_ there anything of the sort? Anything that she says is bound to sound clinical, distant, like nothing but empty platitudes—right?

Many have commented on her _lackluster_ bedside manner as a doctor.

Good intentions don’t always translate into emphatic warmth. Her manner is… robotic….

Don’t be ridiculous, she scolds herself. Stop feeling so sorry for yourself.

Nothing is gained through being fearful, being cowardly. Hasn’t she learnt that lesson already? She will not— _cannot, must not_ —make the same mistake a third time.

(Her friendships and her marriage, both nearly lost to inaction. It still makes her feel sick when she thinks about it.)

This is not the time to falter. She cannot make a resolution to be a good parent to Carol but waver when it matters most; that’s not the type of person Miku Kohinata wants to be, not at all.

So she forces herself to say anything, something, the first thing that comes to mind, “I’m not mad at you,” t0 stop her high-strung mind from further derailing her thoughts into a paralysis that would render her useless.

“…Um,” Carol hesitates, biting her lip. But then Carol shrugs, casually apathetic, and returns to doggedly looking through the cookbook.

It’s an avoidance tactic that reminds her of Chris. Chris, who is prone to black and bleak moods, who wants so badly to confide in someone but fiercely resists at every step. Recalcitrant-but-desperate Chris. Anger-issues-and-chronically-upset Chris.

That is to say—if she weren’t in the same room as Carol, she would have smacked her forehead for overlooking the obvious so long.

“Carol,” she turns to look at Carol directly, though Carol keeps her eyes locked ahead, “Hibiki and I are not disappointed in you, either.” She thinks of how Chris clams up when conversation moves too quickly for her, so she adds, “How about we have pizza tonight? The first day of school calls for celebration.”

“From scratch?” Carol perks up, turning back pages to the recipe for homemade pizza—all too willing to take the out given to her.

Think of this as a surgery, she tells herself. An operation that requires meticulous attention, a risk-filled procedure, but one where she brings all her skills to the forefront.

She has the utmost confidence in herself.

As she gathers the dry ingredients while Carol hops down from her stool to gather the measuring cups and mixing bowl, Miku catches Hibiki hovering in the kitchen doorway.

 _You got this_ , Hibiki mouths with a thumbs up and a grin, then shuffles back out of sight.

Right. She has to stop stalling, stop dithering. She’s made a resolution, by Jove, and she’s going to _stick_ to it!

“I lose my temper, too, sometimes,” she murmurs. Her hands fiddle with opening the bag of flour, and she takes a peek at Carol, whose hunched shoulders don’t give much away. “I get fed up, irritated, overwhelmed… angry.”

Carol slides the one-cup measure across the table, her frown flickering into curiosity. Here is one thing working in Miku’s favor: Carol is still a child, malleable unlike the adult Chris; time has not yet solidified whatever cynicism Carol might have.

“But I think the real problem wasn’t that I was so angry.” She levels off a cup of flour and thinks of the first time she almost lost Hibiki.

Yes, she had been so full of anger—misguided, perhaps, or simply overwhelmed and woefully underprepared. She’d been so, _so upset_ at the unfairness of everything, and she’d wanted it to end, and she’d wanted to go back to her _normal_ life. She had wanted a life where she wouldn’t have to worry about Hibiki (frankly, it’s something she _still_ thinks about), yet she had regretted her words the moment she said them.

Keeping her voice level, she clarifies, “My mistake was letting my anger make decisions for me,” in hopes that Carol will see the point she is trying to make.

“Papa says— _said_ —that I shouldn’t get angry,” Carol mumbles, knuckles turning white under her grip on the kitchen table.

Now what is she supposed to say to _that_? She can’t refute Mr. Malus Dienheim’s words, for Carol regards her father with too much filial adoration to accept opinions to the contrary….

“It certainly would be _easier_ if we could avoid getting angry in the first place.”

Easier still would be having no emotions at all.

Maria and Tsubasa come to mind: both filled with grief, yet vastly different in their coping. Neither of their lives would have been so tortured if they had been able to let go of their sorrow and wrath, but—well, emotions do not function logically.

She settles a light hand on Carol’s shoulder. Blue eyes regard her in askance, waiting on her next word.

(Part of her—the part that wishes she didn’t have to worry about Hibiki, the part that wishes she had her _own_ daughter—twinges at that. Miku Kohinata is not, after all, someone to admire.)

(But she wrestles that back down, forces herself to take a more optimistic—a less pessimistic—approach.)

“Emotions…. Well, we can’t help how we feel, right?” She takes the mixing bowl, dumps three cups of flour in, and adds half an envelope of instant yeast.

Carol mumbles, watching Miku slowly pour in warm water to the dry mixture, “I dunno….”

“Have you washed your hands?”

Scrambling to do so, Carol seems to completely block their conversation from her mind in favor of preparing dinner, for when Carol returns to the table to proudly show off clean hands, there’s not a trace of the earlier wariness.

Denial can be quite comforting, after all.

But denial can also be a debilitating crutch.

As Carol carefully stirs the water and flour together in the mixing bowl, Miku deliberates on whether or not she should continue this conversation. They haven’t said much beyond tentative, vague statements; neither she nor Carol are the type of person to readily confide in others (but then, isn’t that the excuse everyone uses?).

If it were Hibiki in her place, the conversation would have already espoused the value of hope and goodwill, and then the conversation would have subsequently derailed into an argument between Carol and Hibiki.

Once again, she thinks of Chris, of conversations that went nowhere until Chris was ready to lead them, after Miku had proved willing to wait.

Here, with Carol, is it the same? Or should she push for an _honest_ conversation?

Carol, for her part, looks content enough forming the dough with her hands, and this isn’t a pressing conversation (not yet).

Soon, she decides. Soon, but not right now, they’ll revisit the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a pain to write and nothing really got resolved -throws hands in air.- On the bright side, Tsubasa and/or Maria will make an appearance next chapter!


	20. 3T | Hibiki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's struck with a strange feeling -- possessiveness, maybe? -- that stops her from elaborating further.
> 
> She... kind of... wants to keep Miku and Carol to herself. Just for a little while. It's, well, it's so new and _precarious_.
> 
> Tenuous....
> 
> Ft. Maria and Tsubasa.

### T

Today is the day!

Today, on this day of days, she can _finally_ go back to work!

“Just remember, Hibiki,” Miku’s warning voice sneaks up on her, “that you’re on desk duty for the rest of this month. If you beg your coworkers to let you go on missions, I’ll ask the commander to confiscate your badge until your shoulder is _completely_ healed. Understood?”

Her head thumps against the closet door and her shoulders wilt. She had hoped—a foolish hope—that Miku and Genjuurou would have forgotten about that pesky detail.

But Miku doesn’t have to _know_ ; Hibiki will just have to sneak around, be discreet, that sort of thing, and Miku will be none the wiser!

“Turn around, Hibiki,” Miku says in her no-nonsense tone.

Schooling her face into an innocent grin, she turns around and chirps, “Oh, don’t worry about little old me!”

Miku crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow, looking distinctly not-fooled. It occurs to Hibiki that Miku probably has spies at headquarters—Genjuurou, first and foremost, but also Tsubasa, Maria, Aoi… probably also a bunch of people Hibiki doesn’t even know.

“…Just paperwork,” she agrees dully, her shoulders slumping even further. “I promise.”

“Good!” Miku smiles, her arms uncrossing to fiddle with Hibiki’s shirt.

She pouts. There goes her chance at escaping the monotony of the last few weeks that Carol’s been in school; she’s almost completely certain that Genjuurou will pile her with so much paperwork that she’ll be snowed in her little office, just to make sure she doesn’t run off on her own.

Even as she chafes at the thought of being corralled, however, she can see the slight frown of worry on Miku’s face. The guilt that churns in her stomach keeps her from complaining further. Instead, she offers Miku a sheepish smile that Miku barely returns.

Ah, guilt, her erstwhile friend.

But speaking of friends—!

“I’ll get to see Tsubasa and Maria today!” she cheers and pumps her fist, only to wince immediately afterwards at the jolt of pain that goes through her right shoulder (she really should stop forgetting her injury).

Stepping away to rummage around their vanity, Miku admonishes, “Don’t get carried away and forget to eat lunch, okay?”

“Miku, when have I _ever_ skipped meals?” she deadpans, rolling her eyes. “ _Tsubasa_ is the one who always forgets, not me!”

“I’ve packed your medicine in your lunch; don’t skip that, either,” Miku continues, double-checking her suitcase now, and Hibiki puffs out her cheeks at being ignored.

There’s a knock on their open bedroom door, then Carol’s striding in and demanding, “Help me tie this,” to which Miku replies, deftly tying Carol’s ribbon, “Hibiki will be a few minutes late picking you up, okay? And remember to give the note to Mrs. Ibara. Dinner is in the fridge, so don’t ask Hibiki for takeout.”

Carol glances at her, nods, and rushes back out.

Busy, she thinks. Watching Miku gather her things, running through a checklist for Carol to remember (do your homework, don’t forget dinner, don’t stay up late), and watching Carol nod impatiently, shifting her backpack on her shoulders—

No, this isn’t just _busy_.

Miku takes the time to flatten Carol’s wayward bangs with a gentle motion, to promise to call before Carol goes to bed (why? Hibiki wonders), and Carol gazes upwards with the rapt, serious concentration of a kid looking up to their role model.

This, this atmosphere is _alive, thriving, animated_.

 _Busy_ was Miku juggling a thermos of coffee and a flurry of papers, tossing a _Bye, Hibiki_ over her shoulder. _Busy_ was Hibiki stuffing toast in her mouth and reading the minutes of her latest debriefing, barely hearing Miku’s voice over Fujitaka’s orders. _Busy_ was seeing each other by _coincidence_ , coming back from or on the way to a graveyard shift.

Here is tangible proof that their lives have changed.

(Dare she say, “for the better”? Dare she take credit, when Miku still has bags under her eyes? Dare she relax despite Carol’s continued surly attitude?)

“Let’s go, Hibiki,” Miku calls from the hallway, Carol bouncing at her elbow.

“I’m going, I’m going!”

Tangible—it’s something, at least.

[***]

Truthfully speaking, she’s a bit—just a bit!—relieved to be on desk duty. She doesn’t think her shoulder would hold up well on a mission, and that would cause trouble for her team.

“It’s rare to see you so concentrated.”

“Wh—ah!” Her chair twirls around without her permission, sending her straight into the path of a smothering hug. Well, it’s a hug in the same sense that a hurricane is a rainy day; she can barely draw breath and can hardly see anything beyond a slash of pink.

“Maria, I do believe you are impairing Tachibana’s ability to breathe,” an amused voice says somewhere above her. Thanks, Captain Obvious. “And I am reasonably certain that Kohinata would not appreciate what you are doing to her wife….”

Her ears and face turn red (actually, her face might be turning purple from lack of oxygen), but thankfully Maria lets her go; she bonelessly sinks back into her seat, wheezing and glaring at a chuckling Tsubasa, who leans casually against the wall.

“Sorry,” Maria says without a drop of remorse. “We missed you a lot! It was dreadfully quiet while you were gone.”

Tsubasa smirks, “I believe the commander was most grateful for that fact.”

“I’m not _that_ bad,” she whines and almost doesn’t notice her right hand straying up to hold her left shoulder; Tsubasa’s keen gaze, however, makes her change route to run her hand through her bangs. It’s a clumsy save, one that both Tsubasa and Maria catch.

“We really did miss you,” Maria murmurs, taking a seat on the edge of Hibiki’s desk.

Again, her face and ears turn red. She glances at the reports Fujitaka gave her, fights the urge to rub at her shoulder, and wonders what to say to the resulting, drawn-out silence.

They—they’re her friends, aren’t they? She’d been so excited this morning. Then why is she… all of a sudden… so uneasy…?

“It’s been a long two months. I’m glad to be back,” she admits at last.

“Right?” Maria agrees. Gesturing to the reports on the desk, Maria adds, “I bet you’re not happy to return to _this_ in particular, though.”

“When is paperwork _ever_ a good thing?” She pulls a face, but then concedes, “It’s better than moping around the house now that Carol’s in school and Miku’s not on probation anymore.”

Tsubasa and Maria stare at her. She stares back, confused by their intense looks.

“Um… did I say something?”

“Carol,” Tsubasa supplies, Maria leaning forward with intrigue.

She gapes for a moment, but—it’s not like she and Miku are trying to keep Carol a secret, right? Only, now that she thinks about it, it’s probably not a good idea to expose Carol to more strangers at the moment. Beyond that, well….

“I-I mean, y’know,” she mumbles, shrugging. “It’s been a long two months,” she repeats.

“Speaking of long months,” Tsubasa intercedes before Maria can question Hibiki, “the Schnee Orphanage—” the affiliate orphanage, Hibiki remembers with a lurch of her stomach, where Carol’s sibling resides—“has kept us in a near-constant state of anticipation.”

“There is _a lot_ of paperwork involved,” Maria sighs, but it’s a dreamy sigh.

A _longing_ sigh, the kind Hibiki has heard from Miku only once or twice.

“The preliminary file was as thick as an entire ream of paper.” Tsubasa’s hands demonstrate the aforementioned size, which, wow.

She exclaims, “That must’ve taken forever to fill out!”

“That’s not even counting the double-and-triple checks they’ve had us do, and the long meetings we’ve had. You should count yourself lucky that you were able to skip all these procedures,” Maria remarks, a spark of interest once again showing through. “Honestly, the story behind that, Hibiki….”

Tsubasa shrugs, her own curiosity evident in the look she gives Hibiki, and so the conversation returns to the recent turmoil in her life.

Her earlier thought, of _animated_ mornings instead of _busy_ ones, makes her want to gush to her friends how _happy_ she is, but—

But it’s not the time, right now.

“Can I… take a raincheck on that?” She grins weakly at them.

Maria pats her arm and Tsubasa murmurs, “Of course. These are deeply personal matters—Maria and I well know the desire for privacy.”

“I mean, it’s not that I don’t want you guys to know,” she hastens to explain. “Just… just not right now.”

Tenuous as everything still is, she doesn’t want to—to jinx it, or anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edit:** Hibiki's left shoulder is the injured one. Please let me know if it says otherwise.
> 
> This chapter was easier to write, somehow. I hope I can write the last six chapters before the 22nd....
> 
> I should mention that not everything will be resolved by the end of "Alphabet Soup."


	21. 3U | Miku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe they're called "graveyard" shifts because one feels like a freshly-arisen zombie afterwards?

### U

Unease…?

Her hand reaches out, bumps into her bedside table. Wrong side; she keeps forgetting. Her head turns the other way. Soft….

…Warm….

…A prickle up her spine…?

Groan. Her eyes open, just a sliver, to a jumble of grays.

“Oh! Sorry, did I wake you up?” inquires a too-loud whisper.

“…Nnngh….”

“Um, I’m just—just getting my jacket!” A nervous laugh. “Carol wants to go for a walk. It’s kinda windy outside, so… yeah….”

She resists the urge to burrow into the blankets. She opens her eyes, again just a sliver, and mumbles, “Time?”

“Uh, um, four-thirty! You’ve been asleep for an hour.”

An hour? Her body is so heavy, it might as well have been a century, or even an eternity….

“…Go back to sleep, Miku.”

Too late, she wants to grumble as she stares up at their bedroom’s greyed-out ceiling. Even the soft twilight induced by their curtains isn’t enough to lull her back into sleep. There’s something _wrong_ ; she can’t—won’t—go back to sleep.

“…I’ll go with you,” she murmurs, dragging her heavy, heavy body to sit upright.

Her head sinks into her chest, but she clearly hears Hibiki’s grateful, “You will?”

“…Mhm….” Her eyes feel gritty.

“I’ll let Carol know, and we’ll get you a cup of coffee while you get dressed!”

Footsteps hustle out their bedroom, down the hall; voices pipe up somewhere… the living room, maybe, or the kitchen.

Unfortunately, the sounds that echo throughout the house do not reassure her this time, for there is—there is what…?

She frowns, glares at her limp hands.

Hibiki is _apprehensive_ about something. That does not bode well, and as much as she would like to sink back into oblivion to catch up on sorely-needed rest, she needs to be present for Hibiki.

(This time, she’s not going to turn a blind eye. It’s a _resolution_ , by Jove, that she means to keep!)

And so she drags herself out of bed, squints at her rumpled clothing (maybe she’ll change her shirt…? Too much work. She’ll just wear a sweater; it’s cold enough, right?), and half-heartedly runs her fingers through her short hair.

Good enough.

[***]

Until she’s out in broad daylight, she doesn’t realize how _exhausted_ she is.

Her head bobs and her eyes blink even behind her sunglasses; her grip on the thermos feels loose and her knees might give out at any second; her shoes scuff the sidewalk every other step and her shoulders nearly pitch her forward into the ground.

She’s practically sleepwalking, relying more on Hibiki’s chatter and Carol’s interruptions than her eyesight to guide her along.

It wasn’t like this, before.

Before, she’d come home, weary to the bone. She’d sleep until she felt functional again. She would wake up, clothes hopelessly wrinkled, a sense lingering that Hibiki had been in their room sometime in between, her mouth fuzzy, body still tired, but her mind fully cognizant.

Until today, she hadn’t realized how much she taxed her body working overtime (needlessly, in some cases).

Her left hand brushes her stomach.

She hasn’t been kind to herself, has she?

“Don’t fall behind, Miku,” Hibiki scolds, pausing to wait for her to catch up. A warm hand grabs her own. Hibiki’s smile falters. Hibiki tries to peer behind her sunglasses, asking, “Are you okay?”

“I feel like a zombie,” she admits, waving her free hand dismissively. “Other than that, I’m fine.” It’s the truth—really. “Besides, aren’t _you_ the one with something on her mind?” she pointedly adds.

Eyebrows skyrocketing, Hibiki sputters, “H-how can you tell? You’re more asleep than awake and I haven’t said anything!” Then, Hibiki’s energy dims. Her right hand comes up to rub at her neck and she mumbles, “It’s… I mean… not right now. Later, after dinner.

“Hold up, Carol! Wait for us!” Hibiki calls out, lengthening her strides and letting go of Miku’s hand.

Up ahead, at the traffic light, Carol swings her arms impatiently.

That’s right, dinner. Today they’re eating dinner at a restaurant—it’s Friday and she was too tired to cook earlier.

She takes a long draught of lukewarm coffee from her thermos. The sooner she wakes up, the better; she has a feeling that the prickle of unease running down her spine won’t be leaving any time soon.

[***]

Unsurprisingly, Hibiki commandeers the conversation over dinner to lighthearted topics.

Dread wants to settle in her chest, but she tells herself it’s going to be okay.

She trusts Hibiki.

Besides, she’s _properly_ awake now. None of that foreboding disquiet will get beneath her skin.

The walk back home, then, is more enjoyable. She keeps pace with Carol this time, coaxes out a story about that girl Carol has tentatively befriended (Leia, or something like that), and even manages to make Carol laugh with her broken German (which wounds her pride a little, but it makes Carol’s eyes shine, so it’s fine).

Tension, however, usurps the relaxed atmosphere when they arrive.

(Part of her—a part she tries her best to bury—resents the change.)

(But she knows it’s important, somehow.)

“Uh, um, Carol….” Hibiki loiters by the front door, fiddling with her shirt collar, then utters solemnly, “Come with me, Carol. A-and you, too, Miku.”

“Why?” Carol retorts, squinting suspiciously at Hibiki.

“B-because it’s important,” Hibiki insists, causing yet another shiver of apprehension to run up Miku’s spine.

Sensing an oncoming tantrum—a default response, more than anything—from Carol, she suggests, “Let’s go to the living room.”

While Miku and Carol take seats on the couch and an armchair, respectively, Hibiki paces in front of them. Carol crosses her arms and kicks her feet against the armchair; Miku simply leans back and closes her eyes.

She’s not tired at the moment (thanks to three servings of coffee), but she thinks Hibiki might apprecia—

“I’m sorry I separated you from your sister!” Hibiki blurts and snaps into a ninety-degree bow.

This is not a great way to start the weekend.

Ultimately, however, it’s for the best that they have _this_ conversation now. Things like this aren’t meant to fester—else it would feel altogether too much like _betrayal_ , and that is something that Carol is too young to have to endure.

Unlike a certain other conversation….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used a lot of parentheses this chapter. Less dashes, too.
> 
> Tomorrow/later today I hope to write and upload the flashback chapter!
> 
> Also, I finally figured out what is "wrong" with my writing: there's a lot of [vague] build-up in the first half or even three-quarters of the chapter, but the resolution is hastily crammed at the very end. I'm really sorry it took me this long to realize it. Now that I know, however, I can work at being better! Maybe it won't show in this story (since there are, like, five chapters left), but in future stories I'll definitely do my best.


	22. 3V | Miku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never.
> 
> [A flashback chapter. See chapter K for further context.]

### V

Vitriol.

“Tell me everything. I’m listening,” Hibiki entreats, giving a kiss to her knuckles for good measure, as if _that_ is enough apology for putting her on the spot.

 _Oh, so you’re_ listening _, are you?_

She grits her teeth, bites back the vindictive urge to snap at Hibiki, inhales deeply. They didn’t come here to place blame on each other—she doesn’t want them to fall apart _now_ , not when they finally have some semblance of _hope_.

The real question is: how much does she want to tell Hibiki?

 _Everything_ , obviously, but at the same time… nothing. But curling inwards and shutting Hibiki out will only set them back even further.

She has to be honest (the one thing she has never been good at).

And if she’s honest with herself, then… the beginning takes place fourteen years ago.

Has it really been that long? How has she managed to live with _this_ for fourteen years? True, ten of those years are lost in a haze of medical school and her early career, but _fourteen years_ is a long time to let her grievances fester.

“Can you believe it’s been fourteen years since you joined the Second Division?”

“Um,” Hibiki shrugs, the movement shifting their clasped hands on the park bench, “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it that way…. But I guess it _has_ been a long time.”

She tightens her grip on Hibiki’s hand, stares out across the pond, and confesses, “That’s when it started, for me. When you joined the Second Division.”

Hibiki exhales.

 _This, again?_ she expects Hibiki to ask, goodwill vanishing in exasperation.

“I’m sorry,” Hibiki says instead. A sadder smile replaces Hibiki’s previous vulnerable expression.

Frankly, it _is_ an appropriate response. Considering how much their relationship has weathered over the years, nothing short of the very foundation can derail it. _It’s such a shame_ , she can hear her father mocking her in her mind, _that after everything is said and done,_ this _is what will make or break your marriage_.

“Miku?”

Blinking, she forces her thoughts away from instinctive bitterness to the actual problem at hand.

Except, _what_ is the problem?

“I’m tired,” she states. Then, more quietly, she adds, “I think I’ve been tired for a very long time…. Everything is such a mess in my mind, Hibiki, I’m not even sure what I’m upset about anymore.” Her shoulders slump.

Her head hurts. Her heart beats violently in her chest.

“Tell me everything, Miku. Tell me, from the start to now, even if it doesn’t make sense, even if it’s been fourteen years.” Hibiki squeezes her hand. “We’ll puzzle it out, together.”

 _Together_? As if they’ve ever—“ _You_ joined the Second Division, out of the blue, and _I_ tried to let you go but could not. And _then_ , _you_ ’d come back to our dorms frustrated, or hurt, or both.

“You didn’t _need me_ the way I needed you. I felt so—so useless, stuck in the sidelines while you risked your life at the age of _sixteen! All by yourself!_ ” The volume of her shout startles her into silence for a moment; she hadn’t… hadn’t realized she felt so strongly about that.

She takes a deep breath, pulls her anger back into herself to continue. “I resented your ‘saving the people’ drive. I still do. I’m not selfless, I don’t care about being a hero,” she rushes, confesses without daring to look at Hibiki’s reaction, “because I only care about _you_ , not _them_.

“That’s… that’s partly why I dedicated so much time to medicine. Keeping busy… helped me— _helps_ me—obsess over you less.”

 _Obsess_. That is such an ugly word, such an ugly sentiment.

This, however, isn’t the time to be vain. This is who she is. Surely Hibiki has known for a long time, before Miku herself, even. It’s too late to pretend otherwise.

“It also makes me feel better about…,” about her disregard of others’ wellbeing, of their emotions, of their very existences.

Dare she say _that_ to Hibiki?

Vexed at her own vacillating thoughts, she declares, “Being a surgeon makes me feel better about my apathy towards the world.” There. Even if it surprises Hibiki—she _hopes_ not, she can’t bear the thought—this is the truth of who she is.

And there’s no sense in stopping there.

“I thought, when we were settled enough to—” ah, but _here_ , her voice cracks with the vast desolation that no other of her emotions can rival. The ephemeral existence of their family, the transient days suffused with anticipation and joy, the fleeting assurance that all would be _right_ —voided in an instant, in years’ worth of frayed edges.

“Of course it fell apart. If I couldn’t be enough for _you_ , of course I wouldn’t be enough for… anything else.” Her hand slips out of Hibiki’s grip as she slumps forward.

Her anger, despite all its bitter wrath, is nothing compared to the vacuum that exists in her.

“Do you really think so?” The question is soft, and Hibiki scoots closer to hear an equally soft answer:

“Yes.”

The sky, she belatedly notes, has begun to turn orange; cicadas chirp from the tree line and a few mallard ducks leave ripples behind them as they swim past. The evening air retains the day’s heat, for they are in the height of summer.

Romantic, one might say.

Not that it matters….

“Thank you.”

What?

Did she hear that correctly?

She turns to Hibiki, who already faces her. They stare at each other; if eyes are indeed windows to one’s soul, then Hibiki means every word she says—but this is incomprehensible.

“Thank you, Miku,” Hibiki repeats.

Their fingertips on the bench brush against each other. Miku jerks her hand away.

“I don’t say it enough… if I remember to say it at all. I’m sorry for….” Hibiki shrugs, and her hand goes up to clutch her left shoulder as a wry expression crosses Hibiki’s face. “I’m sorry for making you sacrifice so much.”

Visibly tired—in a way she’s only ever seen when Hibiki doesn’t trust herself—Hibiki stares out over the pond.

Despite Hibiki’s many crises of faith over the years, there has never been an instance wher _she_ , too, doubts Hibiki. It’s the most unsettling feeling: lonely and hollow, and sad. For once, she doesn’t immediately reassure Hibiki; although the urge certainly surges at the sight of Hibiki’s distress, the… disillusion weighs too heavily on her shoulders.

“I—I did notice,” Hibiki continues, a catch in her voice, “but I thought… I thought… it wasn’t _that_ bad. You didn’t say anything, and I _know_ you have a hard time expressing your emotions, but I let myself… take it for granted.”

 _No_ , she wants to say. _That’s_ my _fault, not yours._

“A-and I honestly thought I could change. You didn’t ask me to, I didn’t _want_ to, but—at the same time, I _did_ want to change. I just—I couldn’t, I _can’t_ , Miku. I can’t _not_ help.”

Closing her eyes, she mumbles, “I know.” That’s why she never bothered asking. She _knows_.

“No, I mean—” Hibiki takes a deep breath. “I mean,” she murmurs, “for… our daughter, when we decided to start a family—”

Miku squeezes her eyes more tightly shut and shakes her head.

“—you asked me to be at home more often. I knew you wanted me to retire completely, and I honestly felt that I should, because my line of work, a-and I didn’t want to make you worry anymore…

“So I tried to quit.”

Prickling tears force her to blink, but her throat is too tight to say anything in response to Hibiki’s declaration.

Hibiki _tried_ to quit. It’s obvious that Hibiki couldn’t. Miku already knows these endeavors can only end in failure; that’s why she never asked, and why can’t Hibiki understand that doing anything else would be a betrayal to her own nature?

“On the days I did go to headquarters, I asked for paperwork. Reports, research, that kind of thing. I also worked part-time as a barista at a café, ‘cause I’m not really qualified for anything else, not like Tsubasa and Maria,” Hibiki laughs weakly, a touch sardonic.

“But by the time you were,” Hibiki’s voice quavers, “…I was going up the wall with a need to act, to make a difference! And then… and then….”

And then _everything_ fell apart.

“We both lost someone. Mostly… I wish things hadn’t turned out like this. I wish I could’ve been a better partner to you, Miku.”

“I knew what I was getting into when I decided to date you, Hibiki,” she snaps before she can stop herself. Guilt churns in her stomach, along with anger and a want to curl up in bed to never come out.

Hibiki gently retorts, “We’re supposed to be _partners_. That means compromising with each other, not… not one of us sacrificing everything for the other. I know I said I can’t change, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find some way to compromise!

“But it has to be _both_ of us, Miku.” From the corner of her eye, she sees Hibiki shift closer, enough so that their shoulders brush. “You have to let me help you, Miku. Trust me.

“ _Talk_ to me when I’m being shortsighted. Don’t… don’t let me keep hurting you like this, please, Miku.”

She shivers, shudders under Hibiki’s raw vulnerability.

Here, at long last, is someone reaching out to her, someone giving her the choice she refuses to give herself.

She hates being so dependent on Hibiki.

But.

It’s not that. They’re _partners_ , the same as they’ve been since they met in high school, and that makes all the difference.

“Yes.” She reaches over, grabs Hibiki’s hand in her own, and finally lets herself rest against Hibiki’s shoulder.

“We can do this, Miku. Together, I’m sure of it.”

Visceral though her anxiety is, she needs to put her stalwart nature to good use: to repair her marriage, her trust in Hibiki, and to build a home for someone who has undoubtedly suffered as much as they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to stop setting deadlines/expectations, lol.
> 
> Four more chapters! Hang in there!


	23. 3W | Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a metaphor.
> 
> A really awful metaphor, she thinks, but she smiles anyway -- just a smidgen.

### W

Whisper-shouts of, “Damn it—ouch—oh, for goodness’ sake!” precede the image of what _might_ be Miku draped over the kitchen counter like some great white bat glowing in the almost-darkness of the kitchen.

Or maybe the mass of white isn’t Miku. Maybe there’s a robber in their kitchen, taking a break? She doubts that, but it _is_ hard to tell in the moonlight, so she turns on the light.

“Ack!” Miku flings a hand across her eyes.

“You’re not a robber,” she pronounces only to receive a squinty glare in her approximate direction. It’s not a very effective glare. “What are you doing?” she asks, peering disapprovingly at the box of cereal that Miku clutches.

Miku blinks, slow and drowsy. “…Making something to eat…?”

She stares at Miku: white lab coat, grey bags beneath blue-ish eyes, a box of cereal after a long day at work.

It’s Papa, all over again.

Oftentimes she'd shuffle into the kitchen in the morning to find Papa sighing over yet another blackened meal. He would puzzle over the large recipe book with the most lost expression ever. Cooking, Papa liked to say, was nothing like the sciences.

Whenever he couldn’t figure out the recipe—which happened often, too often—he would pull out a box of cereal for them and himself. Whenever his eyes were droopy with sleep, he wouldn’t even bother with trying to cook.

“Let me,” she demands.

Again, Miku blinks. “What?”

Sometimes, however, Papa would let her try her hand at cooking (she wouldn’t tell him that she and Elfnein were sick of cereal, but he must have known). He would hover over her shoulder, anxious, as she made the most basic of soups. Something easy, something simple, something Papa should’ve been able to make.

Then— _ridiculous-ridiculous-ridiculous_ , she tries not to think—he and Elfnein would gasp in awe when her alphabet soup not only turned out _edible_ but also _delicious_.

“May I make something?” she rewords her demand into a polite request; it won’t make a difference, not to Miku, but Hibiki’s voice in her head asks her to please be polite to Miku, who’s tired, so tired.

Oftentimes she lies awake at night to replay those moments over and over again in her head.

What happened to that recipe book?

What happened to Papa’s work?

She wonders if the recipe book burned in the fire, too, along with Papa and all their other stuff.

No, that’s wrong. Papa didn’t die in the fire; he inhaled too much smoke and his ribs were crushed and his heart gave out on the way to the hospital— _that_ was what killed him, the police officer said so.

_“You should have a little more… tact,” Papa admonished, though his eyes twinkled in amusement._

“… want, I suppose…. You’re certainly responsible enough….” Miku shrugs, smiling now (almost invisible and almost drowned out by the tiredness of her eyes, but it’s a smile Carol has seen since infancy).

Assuming she has been given permission, she steps further into the kitchen to make the easiest thing she knows how to make: tomato soup.

There are a couple bags of alphabet noodles hidden in the back of one of the cupboards—slipped in the cart when Hibiki wasn’t looking and heretofore overlooked. She doesn’t know what she had been thinking, feeling, when she’d grabbed the packets that moment at the store.

“What do you want to make?” Miku leans against the counter as her eyes slip shut.

“Soup.” She nudges her step stool to reach the cans of tomato sauce on a higher shelf.

 _Buchstabensuppe_.

“…Hmm. Be careful,” comes the languid response.

Her hands stumble over a small pot.

Papa had hovered every step of the way, and it’d been so frustrating because he _never_ hovered; Papa was _der_ _geehrte_ _Professor_ —too busy to watch over young children, too brilliant to spare much thought to them, too—

“Want help?”

Jolting upright, she snaps, “No,” but Miku’s eyes stay closed and her expression remains drowsy; all of Carol’s flustered bluster is for naught.

Why does it even matter?

Except for random intrusive thoughts, she makes a point to not think of Papa and Elfnein.

She glares at her frozen (small, chubby, _babyish_ ) hands. She _doesn’t_ need her father and she doesn’t need Miku to watch her every step. She’s pretty much self-sufficient, right? She doesn’t need anyone but herself—she’s not a helpless _kid_ like Elfnein.

It doesn’t matter, she reiterates as she turns on the faucet. She just wants to make a pot of soup for a midnight snack. There’s nothing else to it.

“Wrath.”

Through the corner of her eye, she observes Miku idly rolling a can of tomato sauce in her hand, expression more alert but also more blank. She wonders: will she ever have such perfect control over her own emotions? It must be nice, not having to bother with things like… like sadness, and stuff.

Waiting for Miku to say whatever it is she wants to say, Carol proceeds to set the water to boil and partitions one bag of alphabet noodles in half. It surprises her to see that the noodles here look identical to the ones she’d had back home, only in different packaging.

Elfnein liked to spell out words along her spoon. She’d get distracted finding the letters needed and Papa would have to remind her to eat, and Elfnein would grin, and—and Carol would sneer, _“Figures you can’t eat without someone telling you to.”_

She blinks, hard.

“It’s such a destructive emotion, isn’t it?” Miku whispers. The can of tomato soup makes a faint _thump_ when Miku sets it down.

She glowers at the flickering flame of the stove.

“Not only does it hurt _us_ , but it also hurts _them_ ,” Miku continues after a beat of silence. “I used to harbor so much anger… at Hibiki, and my father, but mostly at myself. I didn’t like who I was inside. I wanted to be in control of my own life, I wanted things to be easy—I wanted to have things go my way, just _once_. Just once….

“Was that too much to ask?”

Resentment. That’s the word for this. The water starts boiling, so she dumps the alphabet noodles in the pot. She needs a can opener.

(Maybe it _does_ matter.)

Miku sighs, “I struggle to express _in a healthy manner_ this tangle of emotions, the roiling pain beneath my sternum, the desire to make others feel what I feel.”

The can opener digs into her hand; she has barely enough grip force to indent the lid of the can. It’s not enough to actually open it.

“Here.” A larger, more delicate hand brushes her own. She shifts, surrounded by warmth and a canvas of wrinkled white, encompassed by Miku’s body. The distance between them shrinks, the boundary overridden in a tight hug.

Again, she’s reminded that she’s a _kid_ , that she’s still small enough to be carried on Papa’s shoulders—or, even, Hibiki’s shoulders if Carol would allow it.

“It doesn’t _have_ to control you,” Miku says somewhere above her head. Miku sets down something, her lab coat sleeve hiding them from Carol’s view. “I am terrible at talking, but sometimes I write it down and rip the paper.” Then, Miku retreats.

Pull-tab, she realizes. Something she can more easily open by herself.

And, a pocket-sized journal. Black leather, like the ledgers and journals Papa owned (ashes, now).

“While you can _always_ come to me—unconditionally, Carol—there is nothing wrong with working through your thoughts on your own. It’s not impossible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo sorry. School has once again commandeered my life (and my muse has been preoccupied with a different fandom, whelp).
> 
> Three more chapters to go! I wonder, however, if I will continue with the last arc of this story. It features Elfnein and Carol's reunion/reconciliation process and should resolve points that will not be tied up in this story. If anyone's interested, please do let me know.


	24. 3X | Hibiki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It looks like she's going to be looking for a harp instructor.

### X

Xylophones are such fun instruments: they sound nice regardless of one’s knowledge level or technique. They’re super easy to play, too; she has a blast sounding out random notes.

Carol, however, looks bored out of her mind, and Miku has long since wandered over to the pianos’ section. A small crowd has gathered to watch Miku show off her skills (and the faint grin on Miku’s face says Miku is totally enjoying the attention).

“Nothing catches your interest, eh?” she asks, to which Carol shrugs most unhelpfully. She sighs, setting down the xylophone’s mallets, but she catches Carol’s gaze straying to a far corner of the music store.

String instruments?

“Let’s keep looking,” she suggests and gestures for Carol to follow her into the drums section, after which they’ll pass by percussion and continue forward until, eventually, they reach the string instruments. If the direct approach won’t work, then subtlety is the best way to go. She just needs to be patient and _not_ glance in that direction to give away her intentions.

Her stealth and deception training with Tsubasa and Ogawa culminates in this ultimate test!

As she idly peruses the guitars—she’s thinking of upgrading to an electric once her shoulder heals—while Carol fiddles with the strings of an acoustic guitar, she wonders at Carol’s sudden interest in music. She’d thought Carol’s interests lay in stuff like natural science; she recalls Carol expressing an interest in Matsuoka’s academic pentathlon team during their tour of the school.

But, honestly, she doesn’t know much about Carol.

Case in point, when they finally reach the strings, Carol doesn’t go to the violins or cellos.

“The… the harp?” It’s _massive_ —almost a foot taller than _her_! How is tiny, itty-bitty Carol supposed to play it? Can Carol even _reach_ the strings? She glances from the instrument to Carol, yet no matter how she long she stares, the height difference only seems to increase.

“Yes,” Carol nods sharply, daring her to say anything.

It’s not that she wants to crush Carol’s dreams or anything, but—

“I don’t think,” Miku appears from out of nowhere, examining the harp, “the school orchestra has a place for harps. Nor do I think this size is appropriate for you at the moment.” Miku says it in such a matter-of-fact tone that not even Carol can be angry.

Even so, Carol’s dejected expression makes Hibiki feel like she just kicked a puppy (not that Carol is in any way a puppy, except maybe when she’s glued to Miku’s side).

She casts around for something, _anything_ , to chase away that disappointment in Carol’s face and finds it in the form of something that looks like a mini-harp: the solution to all her problems.

“Um, hey, what about this?”

Carol’s eyes widen.

Miku nods approvingly and flags down a salesperson, who is all too glad to sell them on the seldom-used “hand-held harp, a relative of the more well-known lyre, which ….”

She checks out of the conversation; Miku pays more than enough attention for the both of them—in fact, there’s a light in Miku’s eyes that has been absent for too long, and Carol mirrors that light. Once again, they’re bringing out the best in each other.

_But what about Elfnein?_

Her eyes close.

Elfnein is in good hands. Things will work out—she just has to be patient. Not everything can be quickly, easily, immediately solved, and she can’t fix everything with her own two hands. That’s just the way the world works.

It’s for Elfnein’s own good.

Carol smiles at something Miku says—it’ll work out, given enough time.

[***]

When Carol brushes her bangs out of her eyes for the third time in as many minutes, Hibiki says, “Here,” holding out one of her hairclips.

Carol stares at it like it’s utterly incomprehensible.

“…For your hair, I mean,” she explains following a few seconds of awkward silence. “Unless you want to get a haircut? I favor short hair, but Miku likes hers long and only gets the ends and bangs trimmed every month; I think she has an appointment with the hairdresser’s next week, if you want to—”

“—it’s fine.” Carol plucks the hairpin from Hibiki’s palm, fastens it to her bangs, and goes back to reading the harp guidebook they’d gotten for her earlier.

‘It’s fine’? Does that mean Carol wants a haircut? Does it mean Carol _doesn’t_ want a haircut? Or something _else_?

Deciding to take pity on her, apparently, Carol adds, “It’s not as long as it used to be.”

Like _that_ clears up anything. But, it reminds her of when she first found Carol: long blonde hair, impassive blue eyes behind round wire-framed glasses, and rumpled, drab grey pajamas. Of that initial impression, only the glasses remain. Carol’s hair barely brushes her shoulders now, her wardrobe has plenty of color (courtesy of Hibiki), and, above all, her eyes no longer stare straight through everything.

Yet, Carol’s walls are as high and stern as ever.

“Sooo….” Carol doesn’t look up, but she doesn’t glare or get up and walk away, either, so Hibiki takes that as permission to continue. “Do you want a haircut?”

“…No.” Carol hunches further over her book—that can’t possibly be comfortable (and she would know, being the master of weird positions).

“Straighten your back, Carol.”

At that, Carol huffs, closes her book, looks up, and states, “Papa had long hair. I want to keep mine like his.”

She can’t help it. She stares, slack-jawed, at Carol’s nonchalance.

Except—Carol shifts, her shoulders hunching, and the line of her mouth wavers, and—Carol isn’t actually calm, is she?

“Did he—” she swallows, starts over, almost whispers—“Did your father like music, too?”

“Yeah.” Carol drums her fingers against her guidebook, stares at the ground; melancholy sits openly in Carol’s expression as she forgets to be defensive, lost in her memories.

Hibiki feels a surge of irritation at Izak Malus Dienheim.

He had two loving daughters and a quiet life in the countryside, yet he threw it—threw _them_ , his _children_ —aside for illegal plots and villainous colleagues. Carol and Elfnein _love_ him, and he didn’t even bother to make contingency plans for them! He didn’t think of their safety, of the fact that they depended solely on him, of their need for a stable home—

A slight weight settles against her left side.

She blinks.

Carol pointedly opens her book and hides her face in it, holding it too close to actually be reading. The motion makes their arms brush.

Laughing, Hibiki settles back against the couch, letting Carol make herself comfortable.

It’s going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know if you're interested in seeing Arc IV after "Alphabet Soup" ends! -Whispers- it looks like it might actually have a plot....


	25. 3Y | Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time flies.

### Y

“Yikes. It’s really coming down hard, isn’t it?”

_Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter._

She stands on her tiptoes to peer out the kitchen window, trying to make out the dark grey blurs outside. She thinks she can see the outlines of the trees lining the sidewalk.

Hibiki, of course, hoists her up to sit on the counter despite Miku’s absent-minded warning of, “Don’t strain your shoulder, Hibiki.” A fleeting firm grip and flare of warmth.

_Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter._

Hibiki says something, but it’s lost in a resounding rumble of thunder; she wonders if the lightening is too far away to see, or if she’s just looking through the wrong window.

_Pitter-patter-pitter-patter._

“Maybe they’ll cancel school,” Hibiki suggests, more hopeful than she really should be.

_Pitter-patter-pitter-patter._

_Rrrrrummmmble._

“Doubtful,” Miku states. The newspaper in her hands rustles. “The weather report predicts a cloudy, but not rainy, afternoon today.”

 _Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter_ , the rain insists as if to contradict Miku.

Rainy days—cold, grey, and wet—used to mean that she and Elfnein would be stuck inside while Papa was at work. Elfnein would be content to read, huddled in a pile of blankets on her bed, and that would leave Carol to entertain herself. To wander around an empty living room, dark hallways, a disused kitchen: bored and lonely and tired.

And angry.

_Pitter-patter-pitter-patter._

Charcoal grey has streaks of silvery grey running through now—the blurs outside become recognizable silhouettes of trees and cars and houses. The heavy rain will be gone as quickly as it arrived, unlike the endless rain back home.

“—kiddo. Tough luck,” Hibiki sighs.

_Pitter-patter-pitter-patter._

Fresh coffee wafts around the kitchen; it’s a nice smell, even if the sip Miku once offered her has taught her that coffee tastes horribly bitter.

She smiles, clambering down the counter. The tiles are cold under her socked feet. She takes her seat next to Miku, who nudges a bowl of still-steaming soup toward her, and says, “I _like_ going to school.”

“Nerd,” Hibiki teases, to which Miku rolls her eyes.

_Pitter-patter-pitter-patter._

[***]

Yellow, crunchy leaves stand out against the grey of the road, the pale blue of the sky, and the green-brown of the front yard, but most of the leaves on the trees in the neighborhood, including the _arakashi_ oak in the backyard, are still dark red, clinging to their last days.

The dreary rain of the last few days seems to have completely disappeared.

It’s autumn.

Shouldn’t it be—winter, or something, already? Summer—her papa, Germany, the countryside—feels like _forever_ ago, like it happened to someone else, or like it’s distant bad dream, or… something.

Years must have passed, right?

“Brrr.” Hibiki steps back from the open front door and tugs Carol back into the house with her. “You, kiddo, need to wear another sweater. That uniform blazer isn’t enough,” Hibiki declares after examining her state of dress.

She pulls a face.

“No.”

“Carol,” Hibiki huffs.

“I don’t want to.” She crosses her arms and glowers at Hibiki for good measure.

“C’mon, you don’t want to get sick, do you?” Hibiki wheedles. “Then you’ll have to stay at home with me taking care of you.”

Glaring at the floor, debating the risk. She doesn’t like how _bulky_ added layers make her feel, but she _also_ doesn’t like missing school or being stuck with Hibiki all day….

“Fine.”

A few minutes later, she’s rolling her shoulders, grimacing at the constriction that pulls at her shirt and chafes at her arms. The moment she gets inside the classroom, she vows, she’ll take this stupid sweater off; she feels like some sort of stuffed pastry or something.

“ _Now_ we’re ready!” Hibiki grins, disregarding the sullen pout that Carol directs at her, then abruptly claps her hands and gasps, “Let me take a picture so Miku can see how adorable you look, all bundled up!” And, in the time it takes for Carol to blink, Hibiki has whipped out her phone to snap a series of pictures.

She makes sure to slam the car door shut and quickly march off when they arrive at Matsuoka, though Hibiki’s cheerful, “Have a good day, Carol!” rings in her ears for hours later.

But she still takes off the stupid sweater at the first opportunity she gets.

[***]

Yellow spreads quickly, replacing red. At school, the _akamatsu_ pines have kept their green needles, but Miku says they’ll turn yellow in the winter.

She takes a deep breath, shivering. Leaves and needles rustle; she’s grudgingly glad that Hibiki once again insisted she wear an extra sweater today—autumn here is as cold as autumn in Germany.

Is autumn the same everywhere?

She peers at the geography book in her hands, opened to a map of Europe. That can’t be right, she thinks.

“Hi! I’m Micha! What’re y’doin’? Are yeh by yerself? Wanna play? Wha’s that? Are y’ lost, too?”

Red eyes gaze unblinkingly at her and a mane of red hair blocks out pretty much everything in the background.

“Um.” Her fingers tighten on her book.

“Yah?” Red nods like a bobble head. “It’s cold, too, innit?”

That’s—that’s an accent. Where’s it from? Isn’t it… familiar?

Plopping down beside her, Red babbles, “I dunno where Garie is, but it’s ‘kay! She’ll find me; Garie always does! An’ I know yer friend’ll find ya, too!” More bobble head, emphatic, nodding follows the earnest declaration.

“Okay,” she says, and wishes she’d accepted Darahim’s offer for company, because she doesn’t know what to _do_ (not that Red notices, seemingly content to stare at Carol’s book and let Carol stew in inadequate silence).

Just as she opens her mouth to say something, someone calls, “Micha!”

Red—no, Micha—perks up, like a puppy at attention: “Garie!”

“Where’d you run off to?” Another girl appears, this one scornful blue eyes and a blue headband that is somehow familiar to Carol. Those scornful eyes land on her; that _definitely_ reminds her of Phara Suyuf (and, maybe, herself).

“—bothering you?” The girl frowns disdainfully at Micha, who blinks, utterly clueless.

(No, not _herself_. That’s not how she used to look at Elfnein—right?)

She shakes her head, saying coolly, “No.” Her shortness takes both the girl and herself by surprise.

“We’re lost!” Micha cheerfully supplies into the assessing pause. “But it’s okay, ‘cause I knew Garie’d find us!”

“ _Dummkopf_ , you wouldn’t be lost if you would just stay next to me like you’re supposed to, instead of wandering after everything that catches your eye,” the girl huffs. “Sorry,” she offhandedly adds to Carol, “Micha’s a total airhead.” A sneer curls her lip.

Her breath is caught somewhere in her chest, yet she manages to retort, “Micha is fine company.”

(Was she really—like this?)

“If you say so,” the girl dismisses, shrugging.

Micha clambers to her feet, reaching out to the girl and tugging insistently on the girl’s blazer, questioning, “Can we play, Garie?”

“We have class in a few minutes. Come on.” Garie yanks on Micha’s hand, making Micha stumble after the girl’s quick pace.

“Bye!” Micha waves over her shoulder, a grin still firmly in place.

 _Wait, please_ , she wants to say. All she does, however, is wave in return and stare after them.

Her hand aches from holding her book so tightly; she doesn’t know what to think, what to do, what to _feel_.

The bell rings a few moments—minutes, hours, ages—later, so she tells herself that it doesn’t matter.

(She wasn’t like Garie.)

(Right?)

[***]

“Years ago” feels like an impossible concept to grasp.

“Time is a human construct, an invisible yoke,” Miku shrugs, staring upwards, then murmurs, “I think time is most difficult to understand when you’re upset and when you’re young. At least we have clocks and calendars to keep track for us.”

A lonely, bitter smile crosses Miku’s expression, sluggish and cold—reminding Carol so painfully of Papa that she blurts, squeezing Miku’s hand tightly, “You’re not sad, right?”

“I am,” Miku admits, soft and gentle, lethargic and, yes, _sad_. “I’m also happy. As long as we don’t forget that, I think we will be just fine.” A pat on her head, making her feel tiny.

It doesn’t make her bristle in anger. She presses closer to Miku, who wraps an arm around her shoulders.

Her lower face sinks into her school scarf, she stuffs her mitten-covered hands into her blazer’s pockets, and she decides she doesn’t like winter, either.

[***]

Yet she wonders if she _can_ be happy when she’s been… such a terrible person.

A bully.

“Hey, Carol.” Hibiki appears in her bedroom doorway, rocking back and forth on her heels.

She turns back to her winter break homework, making an affirmative noise.

“I know it’s been just us for a while now, so this might… might be weird, considering what happened—I mean, I hope not….”

Circling a kanji she doesn’t recognize to look up later, she moves on to the next question: How does the author create an atmosphere of melancholy in the first passage?

“… for a few days.”

Her textbook rustles as she flips back a few pages to the first passage and her pencil drumming against her notebook.

“Did you hear what I said, Carol?”

“What?” She looks to Hibiki again, pencil pausing mid-tap.

Rolling her eyes, Hibiki repeats, “We’re having a guest stay over for a few days this week.” Something flickers across Hibiki’s face—nervousness? “It’s… well… uh, do you remember Chris?”

 _Chris_. She’s sure she’s heard that name somewhere, but she shakes her head.

“Um. She… Chris was… y’know—she—when we were… in Germany. You sat between us on the plane back, remember?”

“Oh.” Honestly, no, she doesn’t remember the airplane part. She’d had a terrible headache and then she’d woken up in the hospital, far away from home; everything between leaving the orphanage and waking up in the hospital is a distant blur now.

She does, however, remember Officer Yukine asking her questions like: _Where are your parents? Why are you out by yourself at this hour? Where do you live?_

Her stomach churns, queasy, though she’s not sure if that’s part of the memory or if it’s dread at the thought of seeing Officer Yukine again.

All that is supposed to stay in the _past_. There are already too many reminders around her….

Yielding to Hibiki’s concerned hand on her shoulder, she mumbles, “Okay.” Maybe facing her fears will help—that’s how it works out in stories, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been two weeks, lol. I've been up to my ears in homework. I'll try to have the last part up sometime this week -- at the very least before Friday.
> 
> Please do let me know if you have an interest in the next arc of the story! Also, suggestions, questions, etc. are most welcome ^^


	26. 3Z | Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New year, new beginnings.
> 
> Anger, she discovers, isn't the only emotion she's capable of feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> Of arc III. I said Friday, and it's still Friday for me at the time of posting (even though the EDT makes it seem like Saturday). This honestly took a lot longer than expected to write, but I stuck with it and now we're finally here!
> 
> I'll be back sometime mid-December with arc IV. Do feel free to drop in a few suggestions or requests or critique here and at my writing tumblr, teddy-tries-writing.

### Z

“Z-eh-fire? Ze-fur? Zef-ir?” She drums her fingers against her desk and wonders if asking Miku is worth the risk of running into Hibiki or Officer Yukine.

Officer Yukine—her hand tightens around her pencil, recalling wary eyes _staring_ at her. She’d wanted to wipe that judgmental look off Yukine’s face, but Miku’s firm hand resting on her shoulder had kept her quiet.

Besides… within minutes of Yukine arriving at the house, Miku had started _laughing_ and smiling in a way that made Carol think a completely different person had taken over Miku’s body, and Hibiki had been grinning like an idiot all through dinner last night.

Yukine obviously makes them happy, somehow, in that way that friends make each other smile—that’s what she figures, anyway. From watching Micha with Garie, the rest of her classmates with each other, and characters in books Elfnein liked to read, she assumes that is how friendship is supposed to work.

(Except, maybe Garie isn’t a good example.)

Her eyes absentmindedly rove over her bookshelf as she comes to the decision that she doesn’t want to see Yukine or Hibiki, and—is that a dictionary?

She blinks, then grins.

“Zeh-fer. _Zephyr, a soft gentle breeze_.” She writes that down.

Pauses.

Thinks: a soft gentle breeze?

It sounds like a word Elfnein might like, or the idea of it, anyway.

Not that it matters.

Words are just words; Papa has proven—words don’t mean anything. _Live_ , he’d said as if that was enough.

Of course it _isn’t_ enough, she sneers.

And those are exactly the thoughts she hadn’t wanted to think about! She brushes a brusque hand over her eyes, grumbles about Yukine disrupting such a carefully-maintained equilibrium, and snaps her textbook shut.

She’s not a scaredy-cat, she vows. She just… has to step a little outside her comfort zone, that’s all, to prove that Yukine’s presence in the house isn’t going to _scare_ her out of asking for help on her homework!

She gathers her textbook and homework in her arms, hesitates only a second at her bedroom door, and—

Finds herself in a stare-down with Yukine in front of the study, using her textbook as a shield.

There are bags under Yukine’s eyes as bad as Miku’s when she has an overnight shift, or Papa’s when he’d come back after endless rainy days—or Elfnein’s after a night full of nightmares and zero sleep—

She raises her chin, chasing the thought of _sympathy_ away.

“Go ahead,” Yukine breaks their stalemate, nodding toward the study and taking a few steps back. “Hibiki and Miku are both in there.”

“What about you?” she probes, wary.

“I’ll just be in the kitchen,” Yukine shrugs, shoves her hands in her pockets, and pivots on her heel to leave—as easy as that.

Something (a nameless something that might actually be a shadow of Elfnein’s voice) compels her to say, “Wait.”

Yukine turns back around, eyebrows hiked up in obvious disbelief.

Her face flushes a searing red, but she tries to swallow down her instinctual anger; it’s difficult, considering that Yukine _stares_ at her without saying anything or doing anything other than slouch against the wall to, apparently, wait for Carol to continue.

Only, well… she doesn’t know how to continue.

“Relax.” Yukine grimaces—it might be a smile but on a perpetually-scowling face she’s not sure—and adds, “You don’t have to force yourself to make an effort. I’m an adult who helped mess up your life and you hate me for it. I get it.”

 _No, no you don’t get it_ , she wants to snap, but Yukine shrugs again, and smiles. Smiles that sort of really sad smile that Carol _loathes_ , the kind that emphasizes the bruises under Yukine’s eyes and the tiredness in her face.

 “I’m…. I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of days.”

_“Hey, Carol? Do you think we can cheer up Papa?”_

She swallows.

“I’m—I’m still mad at you,” she forces herself to tell Yukine, who nods. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to come here—” even if had been inevitable—“you, you kept me and… and Elfnein apart—” her voice cracks a little over Elfnein’s name because she _had_ cared, deep down, about leaving Elfnein behind. It’s taken her a while to understand that. “I’m still mad,” she mumbles.

Her head turns to the side as she tries to blink bothersome tears away.

“Yeah,” says Yukine, gruff, “I know. For what it’s worth… I’m sorry, Carol, for not giving you a choice.”

It’s… not okay. But she nods and flees into her bedroom. Hides under her blankets.

She traces the indents left on her arms by her textbook. She’s still angry, but also… also….

[***]

Zenith.

Her heart pounds in her chest, her cheeks are flushed, her breathing heavy at the height of her anger, but—but _is_ she angry?

She _had been_ angry, angry at stupid Matou for wrinkling the pages in her dictionary, angry at Garie for scoffing at Micha’s inability to tie her shoelaces, and _furious_ at _herself_ for thinking of Elfnein _all the time_.

“Um,” Elfnein starts, glances at her, then flinches and stares dully at the ground.

Carol glares at the cars zipping past, honking and screeching and barely louder than the babble of the people around them; this is the city, trying to drown out her thoughts.

Yes.

Yes, she’s still angry—because Elfnein expects scalding words and mocking actions, especially after being _dragged_ all the way here, because Carol realizes, acknowledges, finally accepts that she was a terrible person towards her sister.

She should apologize.

 _I’m sorry_ doesn’t make it all right. It didn’t bring back their father, it doesn’t stop her from resenting Yukine, and it won’t erase Elfnein’s fear and experience. But it’s a good place to start, isn’t it?

“Elfnein,” she drags her gaze back to her sister, to make eye contact like Yukine had done, to convey her sincerity through her eyes like Hibiki always does, to let herself be vulnerable like Miku. “I….” Elfnein looks back, steady and still and wary. “I’m….” Her mouth is full of cotton. “I’m sorry.”

Blue eyes—Papa’s, hers, and Elfnein’s—widen.

Zooming by in a blur of color and sound, the world around them seems to leave them behind as Elfnein says, “Oh.”


End file.
